Recently, a whole string of things have been awful largely due to my expectations. Not my expectation that things would be awful. No, I do try to remain positive. (Sadly, I'm not very good at it.) The expectations I'm talking about are the ones that go along with Having a Plan, big or small.
Life will work according to the order I've set up in my head. This will happen, and then this will happen, and then this.
But when does life ever really work out like that, whether it's around the day-to-day or big, life-changing stuff?
As I was reflecting again on Westley's first two years, it struck me that the thing most responsible for my misery was my expectations. My plan for what having a child would be like—and the inevitable fall when that plan didn't "work out." I had expected to feel and behave a certain way, and when I didn't feel those feelings or do those behaviors, I labeled myself a loser mother with a shitty life.
Today, I had another perfectly lovely day ruined by expectations. Everything I did today was fine: heaps of rad Mommy-Westley time, including lunch out with vegan desserts and an impromptu trip to an out-of-the-way park. But my attitude about it all completely stank. Because this isn't what was supposed to happen!
It's late this time around, but my mid-year resolution just revealed itself: no more expectations! I'm sure I can't stop myself from planning (it's practically a reflex at this point), but I'd like to be more open to improvisation and surprise. Instead of living with plans, I'm going to attempt living with ease.