I never should have read this article.
Sure, it convinced me that I wasn’t a terrible mother. That it was okay not to desire constant physical contact. To crave down-time, alone time. To require it. For my mental and emotional well-being.
What a refreshing and liberating concept. And validating.
It told me what my soul already knew. But that my conscience(?) told me was a fault, a failing. A roadblock to caring for my children in the best way possible or giving them full affection.
All bull$h!t – except that the needs of modern motherhood don’t care about the stirrings of the soul.
Shortly after reading that resonant article, my children started summer vacation.
It’s all-kid, all-the-time. My three little darlings with me and each other 24/7.
It’s an adjustment for all of us. A change in schedule, company, routine. And no opportunity for down-time.
Ironically, the article that liberated me only a few weeks ago has imprisoned me in a summer cell now.
Maybe I wouldn’t be feeling such ennui at the equinox if I hadn’t received that introverted enlightenment.
If I thought that running roughshod with constant company, arts and crafts extravaganzas, beach days and late nights was status quo, maybe I wouldn’t be feeling so full – and not in a fulfilled way, but in an I-ate-a-little-of-everything-on-the-buffet-table-at-the-cookout-and-then-went-back-for-seconds sort of way.
But that enlightened author, in touch with her inner introvert, showed me a glimpse of eternal bliss and I can’t unsee it. If only I could see some quiet time in the future.