Therapy

So, I went to my psychologist. And it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I did cry. And I did express my frustrations about stay-at-home-motherhood. How I so want to be the full-time mom who revels in her children 24/7, bakes them cookies, plays Barbies/Cars/teddies all. the. time. But that I can’t, no matter how much I want it, I can’t be that mom. I told her how much I love them and that I feel guilty for not being the mom who can be engaged every single minute and that I hate how easily frustrated I become.

And she nodded her head and brought up the fact that I’m an only child and that us singletons? We tend to value our “alone-time.” In fact, we can be rather rabid about it. I thought that motherhood would cure me of that. I suppose not.

She recommended I find a mothers’-morning-out program for J-man, twice a week, and that I spend those two mornings out of the house, away from all reminders of mother- and wife-hood. And I jumped on that like a woman starved.

But? We can’t afford a morning-out program. But? My wonderful husband, the family problem-solver, proposed the following. He would get the kids fed and off to school each morning. And I would run. And one afternoon a week, a grandmother or aunt would watch the kids to give me a mother’s-afternoon-out.

Did I mention that starving woman? Who has now finally been fed?

And yesterday morning and this morning, I ran. I only ran a mile each morning, a fact which grinds on my last “I ran a marathon in 2001 and ate 10Ks for breakfast” nerve. But I ran. And the endorphins surged. And I breathed.

Alone.