Self-care? Never met her. I got a manicure and pedicure for Mother’s Day a month ago. Does that still count?
Even therapy isn’t sacred anymore. During my last session, I proudly announced to my therapist that I was home alone with Miles but had prepped like I was heading into a hostage negotiation. I set him up with snacks, drinks, an iPad, and the TV. Kid was basically set.
Or so I thought.
I start my session fully believing I’ve scored the holy grail: 45 uninterrupted minutes of therapy. I’ve been seeing my therapist for six years, so we’re well past the awkward phase, and he knows me better than I know myself, so I feel more than comfortable with him letting him know if I need a moment to be a parent.
Then I hear it … the stomps.
From the stairs.
I pause mid-sentence and say, “Oh no… I think he’s coming.”
We both laugh, nervously, knowingly.
And then BOOM! Miles bursts in like a one-man parade. iPad in one hand, a fistful of snacks jammed under his armpit, his drink dangling from the other. He wasn’t just visiting. My kid came prepared to move in.
He hops onto the bed next to me, casually leans into the camera like a surprise guest star, gives a shy little “hi,” and then settles in with his iPad.
Okay, I can work with this.
But just as I start trying to untangle the emotional chaos in my brain, the interruptions begin.
“Mom, tell him one of our chickens died.”
I laugh because what else can you do? I relay the message, and suddenly, my session is hijacked by a four-year-old spiraling into a TED Talk on poultry loss. For the next ten minutes, Miles passionately details every chicken death we’ve had this year: names, causes, approximate times of day – a full obituary reading.
And look, I’m proud he understands what therapy’s for, but buddy, this was my time. Not your feathered grief counseling hour.
The rest of the session? Total blur. I spent it half-processing my feelings and half-whisper-yelling at Miles to stop hissing at the cat. Every time I tried to answer a question or finish a thought, he hit me with another, “Mom? Mom? MOM?” like he was trying to win a gold medal in interruption.
And just like that, the session was over. Forty-five minutes gone in a swirl of snacks, chickens, and chaos. My therapist and I exchanged a knowing look, like, welp, we tried.
My husband, on the other hand, has two nights a week (sometimes) when he’s not a parent. Just… off duty. He also has friends. (Let’s table that discussion for another blog titled: “Making Mom Friends is Basically Dating, But Everyone’s Tired and No One Texts Back.”) Meanwhile, my closest confidant is four years old and thinks farts are the height of comedy.
Motherhood changed everything, but the concept of “self” in self-care has completely disappeared.
Maybe it’s on me. Maybe I need to bring it up in therapy. Again. But most days, my self-care looks like seven uninterrupted minutes and a granola bar I didn’t have to share.
So this whole “self-care” thing you speak of… how do I get a date with her? Does she take walk-ins?
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