It doesn't happen very often, but I cried in my therapist's office the other day--really cried, the kind of crying that involves big fat tears and the inability to finish one's sentence. I was describing what happened Monday night after I got J into bed, which was: I left his bedroom and just stood there for a moment, realizing it felt really crummy that there was no one to (a) pat me on the back and say, "Oh, well done! Look how nicely you handled that, and what a wonderful mother you are," and (b) offer up some love and sympathy for me.

That was a pretty awful moment, maybe one of the worst moments yet in my life as a parent. It is miserable to see your child having a hard time, and more miserable still to feel that you have nowhere to turn for help. At a moment like that, there's nothing to be done except crack open a good book or start up a workout tape to distract yourself from your loneliness, or cry yourself to sleep. At a moment like that, I don't want to call up Gemini or a friend or my mom for support. I don't want to have to explain everything that happened and then try to make someone understand why I'm so upset, so drained. At a moment like that, all I want is someone who loves me and is right there with me, someone who sees it all and understands what it demands of me.

Instead of that someone I have ME. I can enjoy the coveted privilege of falling apart all by myself and then putting myself back together, one jagged bit at a time, all on my own. I'm like the top of my lovely little blue-and-white teapot from England, which crashed to the floor one day and which I painstakingly glued back together, and which doesn't look so great these days, either. I couldn't make it look perfect again, or even nearly perfect. It looks a wreck, to be honest. But it is what it is.

Wednesday night J's father completely forgot that J was supposed to be with me for a festive holiday dinner, and instead carted him off for dinner with his girlfriend and her family. There I was, alone with my thoughts and an enormous challah, and I couldn't face any of it so I just went to bed with a book. I know it was inadvertent on his part, a simple misunderstanding. The timing was exceptionally bad, though.

I'm getting a little tired of being so fucking reasonable all the time, of being so nice, so patient, so agreeable. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I stopped.

I can't imagine just saying what I think, without my customary diplomacy. I might try it for a while, just to see.

{ prev & next }