You guys, I am really loathe to admit this, but I adore my children.
Yes, yes. Captain Obvious here Captain Obviousing. But, it’s true.
Lately, even though I am still on my phone 99% of the day, I have been attempting to be a smidge more present in my children’s lives.
[socialpug_tweet tweet=”Because here’s what always happens when I look – really look – at my children. I stare at their perfect little faces, amused at their ridiculous personalities. I love them. Then, my brain decides to fuck it all up. #anxiety #parenting” display_tweet=”Because here’s what always happens when I look – really look – at my children. I stare at their perfect little faces, amused at their ridiculous personalities. I love them. Then, my brain decides to fuck it all up.”]
I mean, I pay a therapist to give me advice so when she tells me to put the phone down – even if only for 10 minutes – I attempt to do so. Otherwise, why bother asking for suggestions (not to mention PAYING for it)?
And you know what?
I have not died.
Unplugging for 5-10 minutes a day has not killed me.
Yet.
It has not killed me yet.
But, I suppose I have no reason to think that should I continue and perhaps, lengthen this unplugged time, that the state of my aliveness would abate.
I know. I’m being flippant. I usually get this way when I talk about my children (or heaven forbid, my husband) and my alleged love for them.
I don’t like to talk about it. It makes me feel deeply uncomfortable.
In fact, I feel my body acting all sweaty and fidgety even as I write these words.
Love scares me. When I actually see my children, really see them, I always feel on the edge of tears. Not just the tears that you get and leak out your eyes and you can brush them away subtly so no one can really tell that you had some semblance of human emotion.
No.
The ferocity of my love for my babies makes me ugly cry.
I think this is why I try not to be too present. I cannot abide the intensity of my love.
I mean, how would I be able to function? How would I be able to homeschool my kids, schlep them around town to their classes, and keep them alive if I were constantly a blubbering mess?
Because here’s what always happens when I look – really look – at my children. I stare at their perfect little faces, amused at their ridiculous personalities. I love them. And then, my brain decides to fuck it all up.
I submit to you what happened the other night at bedtime with Sasquatch (17mo):
Sasquatch is going through his usual bedtime stalling routine by running through all his best moves of cuteness. I am laughing and playing with him. I pretend to be asleep. Through the bottom of my eyelids, I peek and see Sasquatch try to wake me up and poking me and talking to me.
I pretend to still be asleep.
And then, BOOM.
I think, what if I died right now? And Sasquatch keeps sitting here trying to wake me up but I never do? Will he ever know my love? Will 17 months of my love and adoration be enough to instill a sense of security in him? Will he know, deep in his bones, just how much I love him because he will have lost me so young? Will my older three children be old enough to keep my memory of love alive for him?
And next thing you know, I’m sobbing my insides out and I can’t stop and Sasquatch looks concerned. He stops playing and tries to comfort me. My sweet, fat little baby.
If this sounds familiar to my long time readers, that is because I go through the EXACT SAME THOUGHTS every time I have a baby.
[socialpug_tweet tweet=”I’m being flippant. I usually get this way when I talk about my children (or heaven forbid, my husband) and my alleged love for them. I don’t like to talk about it. It makes me feel deeply uncomfortable. #anxiety #love #parenting” display_tweet=”I know. I’m being flippant. I usually get this way when I talk about my children (or heaven forbid, my husband) and my alleged love for them. I don’t like to talk about it. It makes me feel deeply uncomfortable.”]
I have no idea how to end this.
I think I will just stop and go hug my sleeping baby and squeeze him awake just so I can nurse him back to sleep.
