Give It Six Weeks

And how to support ourselves & the people we love in the meantime…

My cousin Amanda is probably so tired of me quoting her over and over every fall, but here we are: my darling cousin is a kindergarten teacher, and every single fall she reminds us all—kids, parents, teachers, humans—that it takes six weeks from the first day of school to settle into a good solid routine, and during those six weeks, a little extra grace and gentleness is required for everyone involved.

So that’s what I’m thinking about this morning—the grace and gentleness required for all of us in that not-there-yet, things-feel-weird-and-hard window.

What does that look like for me?

For our boys? For Aaron?

For our friends and neighbors?

What does that look like for you?

My friend Jen is a couple years ahead of me in the parenting game, and every year on the first week of school, she reminds me that by the end of the first week, your little people will be A MESS, and with good reason—so many new faces, routines, locations, things to remember, etc etc. She recommends that first weekend is a no-plans zone, with only fancy baths and lots of pizza and movies allowed. She told me this for the first time probably fifteen years ago and I have followed this advice like a religion, basically.

And the back-to-school give-it-six-weeks rule is not just about back to school, of course. It’s the first six weeks in a new apartment, a new job. It’s the first six weeks living with a hard breakup. It’s the newborn season, the initial grieving season, sort of a universal from-here-to-there stretch.

So this is my first question: what big changes are you facing, and where are you in the six week window?

When I look at the landscape of our life right now, there are several changes working on several timelines, and it’s been helpful to map them out a little bit--okay, so according to the six-weeks-rule, we should maybe be two weeks from solid ground on this one, but we just started this one, so we’ve got nearly the full six weeks to get through in this other area.

This is important because change is hard, and it takes extra energy and sometimes we wander around in a fog, wondering why we’re weepy and snapping at people. It’s a gift we can give ourselves to stop and remember why—because this is new, because we’re still in that six-week window of this new routine or new way of living.

It’s also important to spend a little time considering where we are in these change windows because the way through is tenderness and extra care, so that’s the next conversation: what does meaningful extra care look like for you right now? What does it look like for the people you love?

Definitely, definitely throw out all the generalities of self-care—we’re told that self-care is manicures and candy, baths and workouts with cool music…and it is, for some people, but not for all of us. Some of what will get us through these tough stretches is the permission to think through what really heals and helps us, not just what we’re told should heal and help us.

For what it’s worth, a manicure in a crowded salon with blaring tvs has never brought out my best self, and too much sugar makes me feel worse, not better. When I’m stressed, a spin instructor trying to “motivate” me would cue instant angry tears, and to be perfectly honest, trying to take a bath in our tiny bathtub would be the exact opposite of self-care.

You know what really does it for me, in terms of self-care when we’re in the treacherous six-week window? A burning-hot shower before bed. Takeout—especially spicy wontons from the dim sum place in our neighborhood. A little plate of blackberries. Happy hour with people I love—that sense of just being together, having a place to land, laughing, exhaling a little bit at the end of a long week.

Other things: early bedtimes and good sleep, reading, aggressively fizzy water, walking. There’s no one way, but it is very much worth figuring out your way.

Aaron’s a golfer, and jokes about golf widows abound, but Aaron will tell you that I’m the first one to suggest a tee time when things feel wild and weird around here—he comes home happier, more grounded, more able to engage whatever needs engaging. It’s a win all around.

One of our boys was having a tough night recently, so we ordered in Shake Shack and watched Game 7 of the 2016 World Series (IYKYK), and it was the perfect comfort experience—familiar and fun, connected so many happy memories.

Nearly everyone I know is in that six-week window in one way or another, so this is my challenge for you this weekend:

Get out a piece of paper, and do the math of where you and your family are in various six-week windows. And then make a list of things that add gentleness and care and comfort within the window. How do we offer ourselves soft places to land in the midst of exhausting seasons?

It won’t always be like this. Six weeks from now, getting the boys up and off to school in the morning will feel normal. Six weeks from now, you won’t think of your ex a million times a day—maybe just a thousand.

Six weeks from now you’ll know your way around your new office, and maybe you’ll have made at least one friend. The newborn will be an entirely new little human in six weeks.

Six weeks from now, you’ll stop getting lost in your new neighborhood, and it will stop seeming so absolutely weird that one of your actual children lives in an actual dorm and not in your home.

We’ll all make it through, and then there will be other six week windows after that—but we don’t need to worry about that now.

For now: give yourself—and everyone around you—a big old loving break, and make a list of what meaningful care and support looks like right now.

Here’s to first days, first jobs, new adventures—and here’s to taking good care of ourselves along the way.

One last thing: someone once said about me, “she’s always harping on about self-care…”

Okay, first: unkind.

But second, YES. Yes, that’s me.

Let me tell you why: because I’m an eldest daughter, people-pleaser, pastor’s kid from the Midwest who was raised to perform, care for, juggle, achieve, get it done, make it look easy. I’ve been doing that all my life.

Here’s what I’m just learning to do:

Listen to my own body.

Listen to my own heart.

Listen to my own intuition.

Meet my own needs.

Uh, admit that I have needs.

Inconvenience people with these needs.

This is hard for me. And it’s hard for most women I know.

That’s why I’m talking about it. Because I’ve spent a too many years exhausted and resentful, distant from the warm, vibrant person and partner and parent I want to be. Because my family has paid for my exhaustion and misguided martyrdom. Because taking good care of yourself is a way of honoring your belovedness, your createdness, your humanity.

This is good work, and if it feels hard or scary or out of reach for you, spend a little time with those feelings. If you find yourself thinking things like must be nice, spend some time with those feelings, too.

You know that must be nice is always a red flag for me, something to inspect and learn from—often it means there’s something I really want but am not allowing myself to have, like rest or care or softness. Again, this is good, important work.

I’m cheering you on, hoping that your six-week window is full of meaningful care, honesty about what you need, connection with people who love you well—and good takeout.