To Break Apart
I hadn't been feeling like myself, or whatever fragments of my self are left at the end of each day.
Where my sense of humor used to be there was a flatness; where formerly was a desire to get lost in a 30-minute TV program now was me mentally cataloging the things I would pack when I finally said screw it, I'm out; where I used to have a creative drive was now me driving in the car aimlessly just to be alone for a few more blessed minutes.
For more than three years, my life had revolved around the needs of one or two tiny, helpless, unpredictable humans. For the previous few weeks, I'd been suffering the slings and arrows of parenting a petulant 3-year-old and a teething infant at the same time. In any 60 minutes, I hated 59 of them (with the other minute being me sneaking off to pee alone). At any given time I was THISCLOSE to losing my shit, walking out the door, and strongly considering never coming back.
This was more than just needing a break. It was me starting to break apart.
It was my birthday anyway, so I took money from savings and booked myself a two-day, three-night stay at a nearby inn and spa known for its luxurious and rejuvenating services. The hotel featured only 14 rooms and no children were allowed. The full-service spa offered massages, manicures/pedicures, and complimentary mimosas all day. Somehow utopia had manifested an hour's drive from home. A chance for me to stop, regroup, and mend the parts of myself that had become brittle and fractured under the constant hammering of two very young children. To return home a better mom.
For two glorious days, I took care of only me. I got a massage to work out the knots of anxiety in my shoulders. Read a book that didn't have pictures but had beautiful words. Ate adult food slowly, by myself, at a lovely restaurant. Soaked in a whirlpool bathtub I would never have to scrub poop out of. Watched most of a PG-13 movie on basic cable. Flipped through a magazine while eating lunch in a courtyard next to a softly babbling fountain. Slept until 9 a.m. two days in a row. IN A ROW.
By the end of my getaway, I was feeling better than I had in a very long time. I felt reconnected to myself, more patient, and less like I was going to suffer a breakdown. I even sort of missed my kids. I was pretty close to ready to go home.
55 hours. That's how long it took to go from standing at the hotel check-out counter, relaxed and refreshed, to standing at my kitchen counter, crying in frustration.
The 3-year-old still refused to eat anything and everything, and began every single whining sentence with "I caaaaan't...." The baby was still trying to coordinate her limbs into a functional crawl, and if she wasn't crying in frustration then she was crying because sharp teeth were poking through her tender gums. I only have two kids, but I cleaned poop off of at least six butts in one day because my son is still not pooping in the toilet after 5 months of potty training. 5 MONTHS. On top of that, I have spent nearly 8 months chained to my house because the baby clings to her 4-hour eat/play/sleep schedule and turns into something from The Exorcist if that schedule gets interrupted.
Maybe I was in a better place, but the rest of the universe had pretty much stayed the same.
The following day, I sat on my couch, crying, and told my husband I'm done trying to be a good mother -- I'm just trying to survive. Universally, the first year of life and age 3 are horrible years for parents -- moms especially. I'm trying to manage both years at the same time. And if I have a breakdown every now and then, or damn near every day, I'm tired of pretending to hold it all together.
For millennia, children witnessed their mothers scream in anger, weep in frustration, and block out their existence for a few minutes rather than lose their tenuous grips on sanity. And you know what? Those kids turned out just fine.
So what if I lose what little patience I have and yell when my kid launches across the table the dinner he didn't want? So what if I raise my voice at the whining baby and say, "Stop it! I've had enough!"And when everybody is crying, what difference does it make if I sit down and cry too?
Right now, in this season of parenting, this is the best I can do. Maybe hanging on one day at a time is enough, because if I break, then everything else breaks with me.
Those glorious 55 hours, though. Here's to those.
Where my sense of humor used to be there was a flatness; where formerly was a desire to get lost in a 30-minute TV program now was me mentally cataloging the things I would pack when I finally said screw it, I'm out; where I used to have a creative drive was now me driving in the car aimlessly just to be alone for a few more blessed minutes.
For more than three years, my life had revolved around the needs of one or two tiny, helpless, unpredictable humans. For the previous few weeks, I'd been suffering the slings and arrows of parenting a petulant 3-year-old and a teething infant at the same time. In any 60 minutes, I hated 59 of them (with the other minute being me sneaking off to pee alone). At any given time I was THISCLOSE to losing my shit, walking out the door, and strongly considering never coming back.
This was more than just needing a break. It was me starting to break apart.
It was my birthday anyway, so I took money from savings and booked myself a two-day, three-night stay at a nearby inn and spa known for its luxurious and rejuvenating services. The hotel featured only 14 rooms and no children were allowed. The full-service spa offered massages, manicures/pedicures, and complimentary mimosas all day. Somehow utopia had manifested an hour's drive from home. A chance for me to stop, regroup, and mend the parts of myself that had become brittle and fractured under the constant hammering of two very young children. To return home a better mom.
For two glorious days, I took care of only me. I got a massage to work out the knots of anxiety in my shoulders. Read a book that didn't have pictures but had beautiful words. Ate adult food slowly, by myself, at a lovely restaurant. Soaked in a whirlpool bathtub I would never have to scrub poop out of. Watched most of a PG-13 movie on basic cable. Flipped through a magazine while eating lunch in a courtyard next to a softly babbling fountain. Slept until 9 a.m. two days in a row. IN A ROW.
By the end of my getaway, I was feeling better than I had in a very long time. I felt reconnected to myself, more patient, and less like I was going to suffer a breakdown. I even sort of missed my kids. I was pretty close to ready to go home.
55 hours. That's how long it took to go from standing at the hotel check-out counter, relaxed and refreshed, to standing at my kitchen counter, crying in frustration.
The 3-year-old still refused to eat anything and everything, and began every single whining sentence with "I caaaaan't...." The baby was still trying to coordinate her limbs into a functional crawl, and if she wasn't crying in frustration then she was crying because sharp teeth were poking through her tender gums. I only have two kids, but I cleaned poop off of at least six butts in one day because my son is still not pooping in the toilet after 5 months of potty training. 5 MONTHS. On top of that, I have spent nearly 8 months chained to my house because the baby clings to her 4-hour eat/play/sleep schedule and turns into something from The Exorcist if that schedule gets interrupted.
Maybe I was in a better place, but the rest of the universe had pretty much stayed the same.
The following day, I sat on my couch, crying, and told my husband I'm done trying to be a good mother -- I'm just trying to survive. Universally, the first year of life and age 3 are horrible years for parents -- moms especially. I'm trying to manage both years at the same time. And if I have a breakdown every now and then, or damn near every day, I'm tired of pretending to hold it all together.
For millennia, children witnessed their mothers scream in anger, weep in frustration, and block out their existence for a few minutes rather than lose their tenuous grips on sanity. And you know what? Those kids turned out just fine.
So what if I lose what little patience I have and yell when my kid launches across the table the dinner he didn't want? So what if I raise my voice at the whining baby and say, "Stop it! I've had enough!"And when everybody is crying, what difference does it make if I sit down and cry too?
Right now, in this season of parenting, this is the best I can do. Maybe hanging on one day at a time is enough, because if I break, then everything else breaks with me.
Those glorious 55 hours, though. Here's to those.
I totally hear you. I raise my glass in solidarity.
ReplyDeleteOne day at a time is the only way anybody ever gets through this stage. You're accomplishing exactly what you need to. Hang in there.
ReplyDelete