This afternoon, as Aviva napped and Pearl threw popcorn on the kitchen floor, I took refuge in this post, then left this comment:
Imagine what anger, which you describe so viscerally, becomes in the body of someone who isn’t turning it into song, isn’t writing on a blog, checking in, slowing down? I know I have that in me.
The less available I get, the more Aviva needs me. She becomes a barnacle, tightly clasping onto my front, my back, my leg, my hip, my neck, my hand, my head, my hair, my heart. I feel myself recoiling from her. Waves of self-judgment crash over me. I take refuge here.
I cringe every time somebody needs something – a book, a snack, a different book, a different snack. I cringe every time someone bonks or bumps. I cringe with every whine, every demand, every request, every need. I cringe when the phone rings. I am bone dry. I am tapped out. I am washed up. I am premenstrual. It’s a matter of days, hours maybe. I take refuge here.
Greg walks home from work and before he has his boots off, I’m taking refuge in the bathroom. I’m peeing. I’m counting breaths. I hear him outside the door, being a good dad. Who wants to play Candyland? I sneak through the living room, trying not to let any small people see me. I take refuge here.
It wasn’t always this way. There were moments when I rose, when I rallied, when I gave in and gave up and crab-walked around the living room, laughed even, at the absurdity of our afternoon. I take refuge here.
It wasn’t always this way, or any way. Everything changes. I’m at my worst when I forget this, when I get so sucked into the moment, when I become the tightness in my chest, when the frustration and impatience and intolerance blend into a wicked mother’s brew, frothy and threatening. When I get preachy, when I hear myself blathering on to deaf ears about gratitude or honesty. I cringe at myself. Blindsided. I take refuge here.
And forgive myself.