“Baby, what have you done for you this week?”

It was such a simple question, but it jarred me. I’d met with contractors, unpacked some more boxes, shuttled my daughter to her soccer and swimming and beach exploration camps, cleaned the house, did the laundry, organized some files, hung photos and got the back patio in working condition. This was all for us, for our family, which I am of course a part of. What did my husband mean what did I do for me?

It’s such a common story that I feel ridiculous writing about it; mothers putting themselves last. Whether working ourselves to the bone for our families, always the last to sit down at the table (if at all) and the last to take some time specifically to take care of ourselves, motherhood martyrdom is ingrained in us from childhood. And as much as I’ve fought the instinct in support of all women having a full life regardless of parental status, the idea of taking time away from my family management duties to get a manicure or take a dance class or write a blog post simply does not compute these days.

But my husband pointed out something important: taking care of myself is taking care of my family. When fulfilled and happy, I am a better wife and mother. Lately I have been a stressed and irritable mess, unable to enjoy the things that used to make me happy. Is it really so much better for them to have that around doting on them and the house? He is right, it does make sense, yet why is it so hard to do?

I have already documented the long list of work that needs to be done around me, and I am more anxious than anyone to get our mid-century modern cottage remodeled, the floors replaced and the garden flourishing because I am the one who spends the most time in this house at the moment. I don’t want my daughter’s summer to suffer because of the home projects so any time I can take away from the house I use to focus on her. When my husband is home over the weekend I plan dinners and activities to do together to make the most of his time here with me. But he noticed that when at an exhibit opening at the Laguna Art Museum last week that I was fully smiling for the first time in a long while, and urged me to do more activities like that while he was away. It is really hard, because it feels selfish. And I don’t want to be selfish mom.

One of the reasons I wanted to write for this blog is that the idea of a Real Posh Mom, a woman whose life is not just about being a mother but about being a well-rounded woman as knowledgable of world events and the arts and fashion as she is of kindergarten academics and Frozen lyrics, was what I have always strived to be. I managed do be that in New York and Dallas, and I knew it was a perfect fit. And yet here I am letting myself down in my new home as I shift my priorities to deal with the mounting maintenance and renovation responsibilities and forget to take care of numero uno. And that needs to stop.

I meant to look for a barre fit class I could start taking this week, and I meant to write a lot more, even if only for my personal journal. Neither happened aside from this post, but I suppose the intention itself is a step. With the holiday weekend and turning 35, I did allow myself to enjoy some relaxing time with family and friends, but now I look around the house now and think of all the things I could have been getting done during that time. There is always mom guilt, especially when I paid for a babysitter to play with the munchkin so that I could finally get my first mani-pedi since the move. (Although that was more of a public service.)

My husband loves to say “Happy Wife, Happy Life” when he insists I follow my passions and take steps toward personal fulfillment, and I am truly grateful to have such a supportive partner in my life. We should all make more of an effort to make ourselves a priority, but will we ever be able to do it without the guilt? Will unpacked boxes and piles of laundry always haunt us?