Making decisions has never been my forte. Ask me what my favorite color is, and I’ll probably waffle my way through the entire rainbow without ever arriving at a definitive answer. Or, as my husband well knows, ask me to decide where we should go for dinner, and we’ll never make it out of the driveway. I’ll explore every possibility, weigh the pros and cons, second-guess myself, double back, and hem-and-haw until all the restaurants are closed.
This chronic indecisiveness has plagued me all my life. A decision is, after all, a commitment, even if it’s only for dinner on a weeknight. By committing to one thing, we must forego others.
Growing up, I could never commit to a single sport or extracurricular activity. In the excitement of the moment, I’d sign up for soccer, dance, cross-country skiing, you name it. My parents would foot the bills for the registration fees, the gear, the uniforms. I’d dutifully mark down every practice, meet, rehearsal, game on my calendar. Then the next exciting thing would come along and the previous would be abandoned, forgotten.
In college, I changed majors a half-dozen times. I considered everything from music to teaching to seminary and ultimately ended up in law school. From there, my career took another path, and I never ended up practicing law.
Even small decisions have a way of paralyzing me. Case in point: The other day, frazzled and in a hurry, I made a pit-stop at the post office for some stamps. The kids weren’t along, so I figured I’d be able to get in and out in two minutes flat.
My request for stamps, however, was met with a question: “Which kind?”
“Um, forever stamps.” Who buys any other kind, anyway?
“No, what design?” The helpful worker pointed to a poster with more than a dozen images of various stamp designs, from “LOVE” in flowery cursive lettering to a black-and-white image of some historical person.
And suddenly, I’m frozen. Questions stream through my head at lightning speed. What does my stamp choice say about me? Will my grandmother get the wrong impression if I send her a get-well card with an Oktoberfest stamp celebrating autumn libations? Will people make assumptions about my political leanings if I use a Gloria Steinem stamp? (If that’s who it is, anyway.)
Since becoming a mother, my indecision has reached new heights. Now I’m not just making decisions for myself. My choices impact two other souls, and I must make endless decisions on their behalf.
What’s more, every decision I make for them could change the entire arc of their future. Turn down violin lessons? I may have just quashed the next Itzhak Perlman. Choose the wrong school system? Poor peer influences could turn my sweet, affectionate boy in a bully.
The root of this disabling uncertainty, I’ve learned, is fear. Fear of making the wrong choice. Fear of messing things up. Worry about the worst-case scenario. Fear of not getting it quite perfect. Anxiety in its most fundamental form.
And the only way to overcome that fear is to let go.
Because by not deciding, we are, in fact, making a decision. We’re deciding not to act. To give into our fears. To demur at the opportunity to make an impact. To escape responsibility.
And chronic indecision can itself take a toll. By not making decisions — or by taking too long to decide — we miss out.
Sylvia Plath illustrates this concept with a beautiful metaphor in her novel The Bell Jar. Torn between drastically different life paths, the protagonist muses:
I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked… I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.
Making a decision means accepting the risk that you might be wrong. And what if that happens? Heaven forbid we end up with French toast instead of pancakes for Sunday breakfast.
Ultimately, that’s what motherhood is all about — doing the best we can with what we have.
