Quiet.

I'm having a hard time enjoying the peace & quiet that comes during the evenings in which Glenn and the kids are all in bed relatively early.

I should be reveling in the joy of a couple hours to myself, but instead I find myself lonely.

Sad.

Anxious.

Depressed.

I could be scrapbooking, reading, folding clothes, day-dreaming, but instead I just sit.

And stare at the mind-numbing TV (can we just cancel our cable already???).

Or the computer.

I could be blogging and saying something, but instead I feel like nothing is good enough to say.

I mean, who wants to read about this crap?

And the rapture is happening tomorrow and I didn't even get to Flying Apron beforehand.

P.S. The rapture isn't really happening tomorrow.

P.P.S. Maybe soon I'll have something nice to say.

Finding My "Me Time"

Image credit: dbphotography on Flickr

I'm struggling to figure out what I really want for my "me time."

A couple weeks ago I had the great idea to go to a local coffee shop and read a book. Their coffee is delicious and I haven't been there in a long time because they didn't have rice milk (they do, however, have hemp milk but I haven't been too keen on wanting to try that). Anyway, since we've slowly been reintroducing soy (more on that later, but we think it may be going okay, or at least that he can tolerate smaller amounts in my breastmilk) I decided to go there and enjoy some me time.

Glenn took the kids and I headed out to the coffee shop. I had my copy of Unconditional Parenting in my purse and I was looking forward to reading. First thing I pull in to the shopping center and realize it's quite busy and there's nowhere close to park. I circle around and end up getting stuck in a line of cars waiting for the garbage trucks to empty every.single.dumpster. I immediately started getting anxious, but I reminded myself that I was alone, albeit in my car stuck waiting for the damn garbage man. I turned on some music and tried to relax. Finally I was able to park and walked over to the coffee shop.

It was packed.

If there's one thing I really don't like it's crowds. They cause almost immediate anxiety for me. It definitely wasn't quiet in there. I ordered my coffee and decided to try and sit and read for a short while.

I texted a friend and joked that the next time I got out for quiet time I was going to head to the university library.

It just wasn't what I needed that day. I came home and realized that Glenn and the kids were still out. I took a long shower. I read a bit at home.

I know I really need to get out for some time to myself. It's nice to be at home when Glenn takes the kids out, but I really thrive when I can get out.

I'm just going to have to find a new spot. Like the quiet corner in the Health Sciences Library where I read journal article after journal article for many a day.

Maybe a walk by myself?

Any local friends know a quiet coffee shop?

What do you do for time to yourself? Do you find it difficult to get out and actually meet your needs?

Sticks. And Stones. And Words.

To this day my mother finds it necessary to tell me what an awful little child I was.

Horrible.


A terror.

Two thoughts come to my mind as these things come up. As I look at my lovely, spirited, sometimes challenging daughter I wonder how anyone could possibly label their child with such awful words, no matter what they were doing. I also wonder why there is any need to keep talking about this nearly thirty years later.

Perhaps it bothers my mother that I have a completely different outlook on parenting and children than she did. Perhaps to admit that I really wasn't such a horrible little demon after all would cause her to have to re-examine her role as a parent. I don't know. I know that my actions so often retold (over and over again) don't really seem that out of the ordinary to me. I dumped all the diapers out of the pail and all over the floor? I'm sure many a child has done that. Was jealous of my little sister, unsure of my new-found role in the family and acted out for love and attention? Check, check and check.

For over thirty years I have accepted the "fact" that I must've been a really difficult child. Becoming a mother (and growing personally in my role as one) (and therapy) has made me realize that there really wasn't anything wrong with the way I acted as a child. I was normal. I wasn't a bad three year-old, nor was I a terror to be around. I was a kid. A kid who did kid things and expressed myself the only way I knew how.

Perhaps these realizations are what makes me really ache when Beanie is having a rough time. I view what she's experiencing through the eyes of three-year old me. But it's not the same for her. She's free to be whomever she wants to be, her parents love and support her no matter what she does and we enjoy the good times and take the more difficult ones as opportunities to grow.