“Letting (it) go” can be good or bad, depending on the “it.” Said about a grudge, that's a good thing, of course. About a woman—not so good; she's flushed her primping tools down the hopper and wears stained sweats that are two sizes too small. (Yes, it can happen to men, too.) Hanging from a bridge? The worst possible case; sorry to get dark. Releasing a rescued hawk into the wild—we're back to wonderful.
I've been letting go of various things, for better or worse. I used to have a motto—my house should be neat enough that an old chum could drop by and I'd be content with how things looked—no scurrying around and throwing stuff in a grocery bag to toss out in the garage. The bag-stashing came with a price anyway—it would stay out with the cars and shovels for a week and inevitably some bill would be late. So my new (ideal) motto? Pick up toys once a day after Boss and Stinker are down. Otherwise, I spend five minutes raking miniature trains off the rug only to have the bucket toppled two seconds later. Say it with me: “Arrrrgghhh!”
Actually, the house should consider itself lucky if it gets weekly straightening, much less daily. Selfish ingrate! And it can forget about that roaming herd of dust buffalo! Let the cats get 'em.
I've tried not to let myself go, but I haven't exactly been curling my eyelashes. My former exercise class was at 7 p.m. three times a week—not great timing with dinner, bed times, and a tired Hubbo with a long commute. I may be close to my prepregnancy weight, but I don't know since I can't work the scale. My clothes fit, although my belly is mushier (good for belly dancing, though, eh?). As for my hair, I haven't seen my stylist since November (she probably thinks I'm cheating on her), but I received a beautiful clip for Christmas so I can at least venture beyond the ponytail; I need simple, especially on days when the boys wake up before I do.
What I'd really like to let go of more is worry, but with motherhood comes nail-biting. It's like cookies and milk; they're a package deal. I worried when Boss was pulling out his hair for six months and looked like a mangy cocker spaniel. I worried when he stuttered—normal for his age, but what if it lasted? I worried when he face-planted in gravel and looked like he was slapped with sand paper—would his feelings be hurt if other kids pointed and wondered what happened? I worry that he'll fall in the pool, get hit by a car or be abducted at the mall. With Stinker, the worry began before he was born thanks to polyhydramnios (too much amniotic fluid), soared during his NICU stay and has been yo-yoing ever since. Yes, welcome to motherhood!
I could also stand to let go of caring what people think. I'm getting there. A tree guy was over to assess some mangled branches and came in to the pigsty (house) to crunch numbers. The floor was splattered with toys. The couches were hidden by makeshift stain protectors (blankets). The counters were cluttered with piles of crap. And I didn't care ... all that much. He knew the drill; he had kids. Plus, it's rule No. 1 in the parenting manual: Floor time with kids is much more rewarding than floor time with a vacuum cleaner.
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