I felt like a thief, stealing away in the gloom before the house’s inhabitants awoke from their slumbers. My voice caught in my throat when I called to my husband, “Give them kisses for me when they wake up.” It felt so wrong to be leaving, especially when they didn’t have the chance to protest. They’d been prepared well in advance, but somehow, it still felt covert.
I looked at the house as I drove away and waved at the closed curtains, the locked doors, the house already closed to me mere minutes after my leaving. In my mind’s eye, I saw my youngest’s eyes peeking over the windowsill to wave another time I recently left. I missed them already.
It took me awhile to settle into the drive, but eventually I pulled out the CDs I’d packed for the trip. (Yes, CDs – apparently, my technology is at pace with the frequency of solo road trips). I’d packed selections to fire me up for a marathon drive and a fun reunion at the end with a friend I don’t get to see nearly enough. I’d also picked stuff I can’t listen to when driving the kids around. I listened to the entire Beastie Boys’ Sounds of Science anthology and then switched to The Clash. While I was having a grand old time car-dancing and singing along, it was about this time that I realized, I must be angry. Punk rock, rap, ska with a driving back beat, songs with titles like, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” and “We’re on the Road to Nowhere”.
Was/is my subconscious trying to tell me something? Is some part of me totally repressed by my current state of affairs? Am I really unhappy with the way life is? Am I speeding down the highway chasing after the ‘me’ I lost somewhere along the line? Am I doing such a sucky job at getting respite time that I’m about to blow? Or did I really just need a road trip?
Somewhere around hour four of the six-hour trip, the soothing effects of the road took over. I got used to the hum of the motor around 2800 rpms, the feel of my hands on the steering wheel, the crick in the back of the heel from my foot’s constant 45 degree angle on the gas pedal, the dull ache of the full bladder that I’d chosen to ignore till the final destination. The traffic thinned, the sun came out, and my mind cleared. I thought about everything and nothing.
I realized that one freeing thing about being totally overwhelmed and screwing up postpartum was that my heretofore-crippling bent toward perfectionism was thrown out the window. Now, if not ever before, it was blindingly clear that it just wasn’t gonna happen. And that theory was thrown out the window, when later that night, I confided to my friend that I felt like I couldn’t possibly do everything for my children. She said that feeling came from me worrying so much about doing such a good job (i.e. perfectionism).
The whole weekend was a study in contradictions, me being torn in different directions.
Fear gripped me when we headed to the restaurant at 3 PM for lunch. What about dinner? Used to following a schedule acceptable for little bodies needing balanced meals, it took me awhile to adjust to eating whatever, whenever I wanted. I ate so much at “lunch”, I had chips and Twizzlers for “dinner” at some point in the evening – I lost track. I ate granola and yogurt for breakfast the next morning, but then gorged on a short stack with all the sides for “lupper” (we messed with meals so much this weekend, my friend started giving them her own names).
I wistfully noticed the babies in the arms or on the hips of nearly every person we passed. Were there really that many small children in the state of Maine or was I missing my own babies that much it just seemed like it? Though my husband does say all there is to do in Maine during winter is drink and have sex, so maybe there really are that many kids – and maybe that’s why he’s always wanted to move there ☺
Yet, I relished in looking at every single item on every single aisle of every single store if I felt like it – with no one to whine at me. I loved chatting with my friend with no screeching interruptions – though we had so much to catch up on, we interrupted each other plenty of times. I loved not waking up in the middle of night!!!!!!
I think what I liked most of all was being able to operate on the basest of levels. Basic functions: eat, sleep, pee, laugh, breathe, be. The weight of responsibility was lifted from my shoulders – if only for 36 hours. And that’s what I meant when in my last post, “that which I was trying to escape had stowed away in the backseat”. I don’t want to escape my children at all. I love them and will always – even if it’s the death of me.
It was just really nice to get away. Though, the squeezes I got when I walked in the door Sunday night were more powerful that any pressure I’ve ever felt in this trip called motherhood.
6 thoughts on “Torn”
There have been so many times when I leave for work each morning that I feel torn. That mom guilt is some pretty powerful stuff. I enjoy the quiet, but I miss the noise. I enjoy the freshly pressed trousers, but I miss the peanut butter fingerprint. I enjoy my make up staying on my face, but I miss those sloppy kisses.
I suppose that is just a part of our journey and balance.
It is all about balance, isn’t it? And realizing when the mommy guilt is warranted and when we’re just psyching ourselves out! Thanks for your read.
Sometimes you need a break to realize that you don’t really need one after all!
True. It also often reminds me what a poor job I do building in respite . . . I need to make a concerted effort to so I can appreciate my three little blessings on an even keel!
Thanks for your comment!
Always love stopping by and reading your posts. I nominated you for the versatile blogger award!. Check out my blog for more info
Thank you very much! I’m psyched and looking forward to paying it forward!