I have been promising myself a just me writing weekend for AGES. It's almost become a joke, the number of times I think I'm getting my act together to retreat and then plans don't coalesce. This coming week, though, I am home alone with my three kids. If you've been reading awhile, you know this means I will be overwhelmed, exhausted, irritable and struggling not to spiral into depression. Three kids? It's too much for me. My brain isn't wired for it, and I'm okay with knowing that about myself.
This means I have to be proactive. I must require myself to create at least an evening retreat, and preferably a full day off next weekend. "Off" meaning away from my house with no phone. Somewhere I can write or read. Somewhere I am not required to parent or plan in any capacity. I need to slow down. Turn off. Quiet.
Look! It's my babies in a tree!
While this next leg of Winter break should be easier (two of my kids now have computers in their rooms set up with parental supervision software so they can game all day if I wake up with no spoons), I am still afraid. My youngest is by far my most challenging right now. And she insists on being with me constantly. Give Mama a break! Fortunately, she is irresistibly adorable. Cuteness is what keeps kids alive. Not because we want to kill them, but because it evokes empathy and protectiveness, meaning we will feed those big-eyes sweeties before ourselves. Darn those pinchable cheeks!
I do feed the kids before myself. In fact, I'm really hungry right now. This is indicative of how much I need to make and take my retreat.
Caring for ourselves first allows us to care for those around us better. This is the rationale behind the medication I take. This is why I exercise. This is why I don't consume foods to which I'm allergic. So why is it so hard to take me time? Why does it feel selfish?
Throw your theories at me in comments. Suggestions as well.
image by @jealousyjane
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