|Hitting on any Easter brunch ladies within flirting radius, per usual.|
Sometimes the Universe sends you a sign - we Episcopalians might mutter something about divine providence, though at the Pretty we welcome Betty White or whatever other deity you prefer - and, lesson learned, you go on with your life having Learned Your Lesson. Or so I hear - naturally, I prefer the version where I struggle for months to figure something out and ignore the flashing metaphoric lights repeatedly bleeping "This is really stupid; cut it out."
My most recent variation on this theme involves the desire for more Grown Up Time when I can't have it due to this new stay-at-home-mom gig. As Master P has grown older, it has been easier to get out of the house and socialize, which provides a nice break in the day for Mom here. Whether through our twice-weekly playgroup or Lady Lunches, these times with other grown-ups often give me the impetus to get up, MILF-ready, and out of the house as well as provide the adult conversation work once did.
Over the past two months, however, poor Master P has had one bout of sniffles after another (therefore, so have I), and of course I feel terribly about his being sick as any mother would. Alas, being the selfish creature I am, I confess I've also been feeling sorry for myself, since his repeat illnesses have necessitated our being home and therefore cut me off from my "adult" day time excursions.
While frustrated the other day by missing playgroup again, selfishly missing that adult time, it occurred to me - again - "It's not about you anymore." Like most mom stuff I've struggled with, this would be obvious to most, but I continue to need the reminder signs. My favorite advice column here, the lead-up week to Easter . . . for whatever reason, the Universe / God / Betty White etc. put up those sign-posts for me in bright lights this past week.
It doesn't matter that I sometimes get lonely for adult conversation on those long days at home; those days will come again, soon enough. It doesn't matter that I want to sit in bed & read all day when I'm sick; I have someone else to care for. It's not about me anymore - and, though I may struggle occasionally with that, I'm incredibly lucky and grateful that it isn't.
At church today, thrilled to be celebrating our first Easter as a family of three, I gazed at the Anonymous Husband as he held the happily gurgling Master P. "Bring the belief of a child to Easter," our priest encouraged. Looking at the beaming, bouncing, perfect child to my left - my child, I still don't entirely believe it sometimes - I got it.
Bring the belief of a child to Easter, yet I am not a child; it's not about me anymore. Happy Easter, friends.
|Taking a flirting break to revisit Sofie the Magical Giraffe|