So it’s been rough, y’all. My miscarriage last December not only left me heartbroken, but it threw me back in the deep-end. You know, the one they like to call post-partum depression. Couple that with a temporary move into a teeny tiny one-bathroom apartment while our new house is being built, and I’m a lonely mess.
I went back to my doc, got some new meds and instructions to see a therapist, like yesterday. So I did. I told her how I felt like a bad mom, a bad wife, just a big hot mess. We discussed some baby steps that will help get me out of this pit. The biggest one – the one my insides rebelled against immediately – was The Break. Wait, what? You want me to leave my child when I’m already feeling guilty enough about my lack of energy to fully engage him throughout the day? But I told this nice lady that I’d talk it over with my hubby.
So we talked, although I admit I felt even more guilt asking for this. We didn’t really have room in the budget for child care outside our monthly date nights. But she had made it very clear that those didn’t count. I needed a weekly break, during regular hours – preferably at the time that I feel my worst. So we decided we’d follow her recommendation and find a sitter for our son for a few hours a week.
I’m sitting here at the bookstore writing this on my first Break. I spent the first hour at adoration – because Jesus really does need to come first in all of this. All my efforts are in vain if I’m not chasing after Him and glorifying Him with my time and devotion. And so here I sit, honestly missing my little guy, but trying hard to embrace this alone time. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right? Well mine’s about bursting with thankfulness for my chance at motherhood and that the Lord blessed us with such an amazing boy.
So perhaps there is some validity to this concept. This concept that flies in the face of all the attachment parenting books whose words I’ve treated as gospel for too long. I’m starting to learn that nobody knows what’s best for our family except those of us who are in the trenches day in, day out. And maybe my new therapist is onto something here. Taking care of oneself shouldn’t be put so far on the back-burner that the house ends up in flames. I’m learning to embrace a more balanced approach to parenting and to life itself. And it sure does taste sweet (or maybe that’s just my Java Chip frappuccino? *shrugs*)