When I got pregnant with Lucy, I had doubts about my fitness as a mother. After what seemed like a long time to get pregnant, fickle creature that I am, I...wondered. Was this a good idea? Mothers are saints. Mothers are Good with capital G. Mothers don't lose their car keys at least once a day. I felt like I did when I got married, when I bought a house: "Don't they know I am incompetent?" I was afraid that all the weak, gross parts of my soul would be revealed.
And then I read this magic book: Operating Instructions, by Anne Lamott. It is an honest account of this fabulous, crazy woman's first year as a mother. She describes in hilarious detail all of her feelings. She is no saint. She is a little scared and incompetent. And she is good with a little g. The kind of good that is the best we can hope to be as mothers.
I worship this woman, who both lowered and raised my expectations about motherhood. And tonight, Magpie and I went to hear her read from her latest book, Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith. This one is about, well, faith. The only subject in which I am even less skilled than motherhood, besides maybe calculus. I am hoping Anne Lamott will sort this faith thing out for me too. After all, I have a husband, a house, and a baby. And I still spent 45 damn minutes looking for my car keys this morning. But maybe I am alright, even good.