Post Pardonne-Moi #2
Tonight I sat and cried on my living room floor. I had a case of post-pardonne-moi. My three-year old crawled into my lap and offered me a hug asking, “What’s wrong mommy? What happened?” I couldn’t tell him that it wasn’t one thing in particular, that the accumulation of the grind of the day, of driving across town to and from his daycare and my work, that sometimes I felt soulless these days and that the mail that I had just opened, a rather large bill, just put me over the edge. He’s three, I’m the adult, I should be able to keep these emotions at bay. I can self-talk or vent with anyone else about any of the things, but not with him, a child.
Sometimes I wonder if this is a form of post-partum. Waves of sadness, of listlessness, of running on absolute empty, in my otherwise happy day. Days where I long for hours without a schedule, to not think about food, to not plan a meal, because I feel like I am constantly in motion, or as a good friend, a mom of two said, I’m always working, but I’m getting nothing done. For weeks, again, I feel like I’ve been treading water. Holding it all together and being as best I can in the moment, but the well isn’t very deep. I work. I run. I parent. I read. I go to neighbourhood BBQ’s. I do my best. None of my problems are big problems, they are everyday aspects of most urban dwellers and in particular, families. We deal with traffic, taxes, daycares, community health and safety and food. We talk and ponder education catchments and whether French immersion is right for our kids. We socialize, sometimes. We play. We spend time at parks. We enrol our kids in Little Kickers and Guardian Swim. So when something that is usually taken in stride sets me over the edge and I cry openly in front of my son, I think, okay, it’s time to slow down, cancel the babysitter and the planned 8km run for night, just shut it down and be calm and present and chill. I don’t let guilt wash over me – it’s more than ok that my son sees me cry and tries to soothe me. He see’s me happy, patient, creative and kind. He sees me being firm, and yes, occasionally, he’ll see me cry. Ultimately I think it’s healthy that he sees the range of emotions we’re all capable of, and sees me move in and out of them fluidly, sometimes after a hug. So I’ll try to shake the feeling of guilt, of failure, of less-then-great adultness that comes after such a crumpled moment on the floor. Post-pardonne-moi, ce soir.
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