You’ve heard of Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous, Over-eaters Anonymous, but have you ever heard of Volunteers Anonymous?
It’s a real thing.
I should know; my mom founded it. When I was in junior high, she and her friends suddenly realized an addiction was reeking havoc on their lives: volunteering.
Like most addiction stories, hers began innocently enough, just a small taste offered on the school yard by an older, more experienced mother. Psst. Over here. You want to try this brownie? Want to buy it? Want to bake a batch for the next bake sale?
One pan of Mimi’s brownies later, and they could see they had her sunk. Would you like to join the PTA?
Soon her life spun out of control. Her schedule was unpredictable. She attended meetings at all hours. She drove batty all around town on odd errands. Strange new friends kept calling the house. She stayed up till the wee hours of the night. In the morning my sister and I would find her passed out on the couch, covered in little bits of thread and fabric scraps. She admonished us not to talk to her until she had her first cup of coffee.
Her appearance began to change too. Dark manic smiles settled under her eyes. A few strands of her chocolate mane suddenly blanched into sparking silver tinsel. Worry lines gently etched her face. She wasn’t alone. All the moms in her gang began to take on this washed-out, harried look.
I don’t know exactly what her rock bottom was. Was it a week of midnight sewing for costumes my sister and I hated? Was it a burnt batch of cookies or just the ungrateful snarl of two teenage daughters?
Suddenly, she saw her life for the tornado it had become, called up her friends, and met them at a dive bar two miles from our house. Between rounds of beers and darts, these women discovered that they shared the same addiction to volunteering and decided to found Volunteers Anonymous. They met every month or so at the same dive bar and practiced saying no. No!
They didn’t go cold turkey.
It was more about controlling their dosage of volunteering. One thing at a time. Help one month and let someone else step up the next.
When she came home from these VA meetings, a little buzzed and a bit goofy, my teenage self didn’t quite understand the fuss. It wasn’t like she was at school every single day. I didn’t, couldn’t, get it.
Until now.
I am a PTA member (maybe even a vice president of preschool, I think someone mentioned that), a room mom, a bake sale contributor, an afterschool yoga instructor, a book fair worker, a pumpkin patch story-teller, class photographer, class party planner, and now I’m getting some pretty heavy pressure to be a soccer mom.
Ugh!
I’ve reached my limit. Although I love to how happy soccer makes my little guy, I don’t want to watch every practice, attend every game, bake for every bake sale, ride the bus for away games, or make snacks for the whole team.
I’ll root for him with all my heart (occasionally)!
That’s my limit. Every time I take step back from volunteering, a step that is also towards fulfilling my dreams, a step towards building my career, a step towards taking care of myself, I get pressure to stay put.
But your kids are only little once.
What a true and untrue statement! Yes, childhood is a finite period of time, and in retrospect it blurs by in a flash. But when you are actually trudging through it, it drags on and on. Children aren’t little once. They are little every minute of every hour, of every day, of every week, of every month, of every year, for about a decade!
I don’t want to miss my children’s childhoods, but should that mean missing my own life in the process? Can we not live parallel lives, and use our separations as fodder for dinner conversation? If I spend ten years living their lives, who will I be when they shove me back at puberty?
When my mother comes to visit, she can only sit next to one grandchild at a time at our six-top dining room table. She always smiles at the child whose turn it is to sit alone and says, Good, now I can wink at you!
She’s a wise woman, that mother of mine. I think I’ll take after her and create a local chapter of Volunteers Anonymous. There’s a wine bar a mile from house, and I know just who to invite to the meeting….
I saw them yesterday, on the school bus, on the six-hour field trip to a farm.
We could use a drink.
And I think my kids are old enough for an occasional wink.
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