In the books I read as a kid, my characters’ moms were always giving them advice that was like, “Leave the house with clean underwear,” which I never understood. I still don’t - who is leaving the house with dirty underwear? Why is their underwear dirty? If you have skid marks, please allow me to recommend a bidet. No seriously. Why North America hasn’t widely embraced bidet usage is beyond me. Someone send this to the hot-girls-with-IBS of Tiktok.
My mother is not a woman to dish out excess advice. She is very good at listening, and she is an exceptional commiserator, but she rarely lectures or pontificates. This is wonderful for me but unlucky for her, as it means she’s often the number one person I complain to when things are going poorly. And, for the past seven months or so, things have been going very poorly. My mom has been on the receiving end of many phone calls and texts that have varied from panicked to tearful to despondent. I’m grateful to always have a level-headed sounding board—there have been more than a few times she’s dragged me back from the brink.
She texted me today with this excerpt from The Dutch House by Ann Patchett:
Other than “always drink a glass of water between alcoholic beverages,” the one piece of wisdom that my mother will always readily dispense is this: Lower your expectations.
I can already hear her insisting that I provide context (“you’re making me sound bad!”), so allow me to explain. One of my worst qualities is that, in any given situation, I’ve crafted a plan in my head of the limited outcomes that I’ve determined will lead me to happiness. (I’m in therapy, ok.) I often suffer disenchantment by my own hand. Call it perfectionism; call it eldest-daughter syndrome if you want—a rose by any other name, &c.
Ever since I was an overachieving, anxious teenager (drastically different from the overachieving, anxious 30-year-old I am today!), my mom would gently remind me that it was okay if everything didn’t turn out perfect all the time. I think it was her way of gently trying to prepare me for real life without being like, “Shit’s gonna suck sometimes.” Personally, I would tell my kid the latter, which is why I’m not a parent.
She’d say things like, “If you have lower expectations, things will always turn out better than you planned!” I mean, that sounded great, but the impossibly high standards to which I hold myself and others have always had a heck of a siren call. With practice, it’s gotten slightly easier over the years to expect less; this sounds incredibly defeatist, but I think it’s pragmatic. If I’m mentally prepared for a worse outcome, I’m pleasantly surprised if things go right.
This is not to claim I’ve mastered the skill. My partner will vouch for the fact that I’m still prone to setting lofty goals and dreaming up absurd scenarios that rely heavily on “if-x-then-y” tic-tac-toe moves. See also: our recent efforts to find an affordable, pet-friendly sublet in Vancouver (yes, you can laugh). And I’m still often disappointed when reality doesn’t measure up to the ideal world in my brain. Less so than I used to be, though, so I guess… growth? Progress? OK Google, play Mama Tried.
I could benefit from calling Mamma T for some advice now and again. ♥️