Wednesday, September 29, 2010
When the mean reds come calling
Funny, I had to break down sobbing three times in the past week, one of them in broad daylight on a busy bridge across the river Saone in Lyon, to realize I might be a bit, um.... depressed.
How His Dark Lord manages to find me in the most unlikely of places at the most inopportune of times, I will never know.
I do know that simply knowing this is what is happening and knowing it's not forever is encouraging.
Otherwise I might worry I am destined to see life in constant, cold, flickering shades of gray rather than in the warm, rich, sometimes vibrant, sometimes muted, but always somehow lovely and promising colors it was meant to be dressed in.
And then there is this little angry, hyper-critical person inside me. The one who judges everybody and everything, including myself, including my kids, including my husband, and including the poor frazzled mother who was berating her tiny weeping daughter outside of ballet class this morning.
"Jeez!" I thought. "Harsh much? Perhaps, rather than force your kid into that tutu and into that ballet class, you might consider giving her a hug and a cuddle going home to bake something together, and start over."
Then the hypocrite police are on my case. I have not only been in that mother's shoes, I feel like I have been inside her head. When no matter how much you know that some days your child's agenda will not yield to your own, and your child will simply not want to leave your side no matter how much you crave to feel her bravely let go of your hand so you can watch her dance with the other pink girls through the window, she will not let go. And instead of relenting, this stubborn, ego-fueled donkey inside of you insists you have to force boldness and independence rather than let it evolve. If only to save face in front of the other mothers.
Because you worry that her inability to let you go is your fault somehow. That it is proof that something is wrong with you as a mother. Why can't my child be like those other happy, dancing children in that room who couldn't care less where their mothers are? What am I doing wrong?
To hell with all that.
And to hell with the autumn blues.
I'm going to have a cup of tea and a couple, or a dozen, chocolate cookies now. That is, of course, in lieu of a martini and a roll -your -own cigarette.
More enlightened self discovery can be found over at Momformation.