I went to go get the mail yesterday. And, I don’t know if it was the excitement of sneaking out of the house without kids following me or perhaps just pure clumsiness, but I fell. We have one step on our front stoop. One. And I completely missed said-step and fell. The decorative rocks of the path scraped up my knees and the palms of my hands. I was bleeding and sobbing. (I never think of myself as someone who stores emotions, and, if you know me, you’d wonder how I have any left. But every time I get hurt, a huge rush of emotions come pouring out along with the hurt and surprise of it all.)
ANYway. So, I’m sitting on the ground outside, crying because I’m hurt. Crying because none of our neighbors are out and we don’t know any of them and none of them would even care if I was hurt anyway. – You get the picture. I’m feeling awfully sorry for myself. But even as my tears are streaming down and blood is dripping onto my clothes, I’m simultaneously thinking:
Ahhhh, this is such a lovely little break. I’m outside. Nobody knows I’m here. Nobody is asking me anything. It’s completely quiet (except for my own sobs, of course).
So, I quieted down and stayed a little longer. I got as comfortable as I could, given my injuries, and sat and enjoyed the peace and the breeze and the break. What an unexpected, wonderful gift of time. Almost, dare I say, like a mini-vacation.
These are the stories that need to be told in high school sex-ed programs, because moments like these – well, that’s parenting. (Or, rather, what a break from parenting looks like.)
(*My husband was inside with the kids, so I wasn’t being completely irresponsible by taking so much time for myself. Maybe next time I fall, we could get a babysitter and have ourselves a date!)