Too much...and not enough

*Just know going in to this post that it may be another 6 months before I post again. I would love to blog more often, but in this season, it's not possible.  But I had this thought today and needed to process it out here.

I spend most, if not all of my day, every day feeling like I'm too much of some stuff and not enough of others. My prevailing thought through most of every day is that I'm too fat. At least once an hour, but that's really probably underestimating.  I feel like I think about my weight like men supposedly think about sex. All.the.time.
If I'm not thinking about being fat, I'm thinking about how incompetent I am. I spend most of my waking hours at a job that I utterly adore, but that I feel almost completely incompetent at. Now, you must know that absolutely no one at my job reflects this to me; it is entirely self-inflicted. I'm actually quite good at my job–clearly, or I wouldn't still have it. But I don't feel good at my job.
Then I come home.  To my beautiful house in a great neighborhood in a wonderful area of town. But then I think that my house isn't enough. Not decorated enough, not clean enough, not big enough, not updated enough, not organized enough.
And don't get me started on my kids. I am not good enough to be their mom. I let them watch too much TV and play too many video games. I don't monitor their food for trans-fat, gluten, HFCS, monounsaturated fat, tri-something, and partially-hydrogenated something else. I don't grind my own wheat, or shop at Harry's, or buy exclusively organic, or non-GMO (whatever the hell that is). I didn't make my own baby food. We have fast food. We have processed food. My kids don't eat dinner some nights. We eat in front of the TV. We don't pray with them every night (gasp!) or have family devotions (double gasp!). They don't even bathe every night. Neither one of them wear clothes that match on a consistent basis.
Now we're back to the fat thing. I don't workout. We gave up on the gym. My family doesn't go on runs or bike rides. I don't even own a bike. We're not training for a marathon or a kids first triathalon or even a 5K. This brings me to my husband. I'm a terrible wife. I'm not sexy enough (remember, the fat thing). I don't listen carefully enough to the troubles of his day at work. I'm not supportive enough or encouraging enough. I don't create a relaxing home environment. I don't freshen up my make up before he gets home. Some days I barely look at him when he gets home. I wear shorts and T shirt to bed. Sometimes I even wear pants. With snow flakes on them. FYI, the shorts and the T shirt don't even match. I also have a bite guard. Because I stress myself out so much that at night I clench my teeth so hard that some enamel came off my teeth. Because I'm not enough. Or I'm too much.
I don't get enough done in my day every day. I feel guilty for taking any free time.  I do it, but I feel guilty the whole time. So guilty that most time I give up on relaxing or just sitting and go cross one more thing off my list. All in an attempt to be enough. Like getting one or two more things done in my day will fix everything. Or make up for my short falls in all these areas. And there's more. There's always more. The list of my failures is long. So long it doesn't even matter the paltry few things I actually get right-it'll never even out.
Pretty bleak picture, right? After reading my particular brand of crazy, you're likely to think that my world is full of awful, abusive people who make me feel this way. Here's for the really crazy thing...not one single person in my life has ever done or said anything that would lead a rational person to think any of the things I've listed out. I have a great husband, fantastic kids, incredible friends, an awesome work environment. I've done all this to myself. Who am I trying to impress? What's my measuring stick?
I'm challenging myself this week to just stop it. To be a little more forgiving of myself. To quit thinking such awful things about myself. To stop over-analyzing and over-thinking. To extend myself just a little bit of the grace that I so willingly extend to others. To see myself through my Creator's eyes. Or heck, just to see myself through my children's eyes. They seem to be rather fond of me. In all my imperfect, squishy, too much, and not enough glory. But to them, I am just right. Now I just have to convince myself of that.