I miss being the last person on the dance floor at the end of the night.
I miss saying yes to a poker game that may last until one or two o’clock in the morning, especially if I’m winning.
I miss remembering people’s birthdays, and enough in advance that I had the time to find them something thoughtful.
I miss being able to leave my house without constantly checking the time to make sure I’m not away from the kids for too long.
I miss being able to go out with my husband without having to ask anyone for help. No matter how much my mom convinces me she loves it, it never gets easier to accept that everything feels imbalanced. I never feel like I can say thank you enough.
I miss having the mental capacity to tell people how much I care.
I miss being fun. Up for an adventure. Letting go of schedules, rules, routines.
I miss being brave, not paralyzed by the fear of a carrot not being cut small enough.
I miss the way I loved to drive. I miss my standard car.
I miss thinking I was tired before I knew the sleep-deprived monster that lives inside me.
I miss wearing my hair down. White shirts.
I miss being a good friend. I miss being a thoughtful daughter, granddaughter.
I miss being able to laugh everything off.
I miss seeing the glass half full, when I know that my glass is actually overflowing.
I miss her.
I just miss her.
I want someone to reassure me that this is all okay. Normal. I want to know that I can feel these things and love my kids just as much as the daycare mom who never forgets pyjama day.
I’m sick of the guilt that seems to have inhabited my being. Even when I’m happy, I feel guilty for every moment I wasn’t.
I want all the unpleasantness in my brain to just go away.
I don’t wonder what a therapist would say to me out loud. I wonder what she’d be thinking for real. This bitch has everything and she’s struggling? Her husband does all that and she’s complaining? She thinks that’s stress? I can feel her eyes roll before I even book the appointment.
The problem is I don’t have any words of wisdom this time. Someone needs to take over. I need someone to take over. I need help.
But because it’s late at night and there isn’t much I can do until morning, I’ll keep writing.
What do I not miss?
I don’t miss crying every time I got my period. The desperation of wanting a child.
I don’t miss daily needles, pills shoved up my vagina, just in case.
And now that I have them, what would I miss if suddenly they weren’t here?
The weight of their little bodies on mine.
The smell of their necks.
The size of their shoes.
The sound of “You Are My Sunshine” in half-gibberish.
The giggles that so distinctly come from the belly of a baby.
The way they lock eyes with me and there is no awkwardness, just pure and primal connection.
The way I can kiss a boo boo and make it magically disappear.
Car rides with ridiculous descriptions of what was most certainly not for lunch.
Disney movies. Play Doh. Dolls.
Saturday mornings. Family Saturday mornings.
Hugs. The clingy ones you get when they’re overtired. Or sick.
A reason to go to bed early.
A reason to wake up early.
A purpose.
And just like that, it’s clear.
What I would miss about this new life is simply too much to bear.
If I forgot your birthday this year, I’ll make up for it. I promise.
If I missed the party, there will be more. It’s not you, it’s me.
For now, I’m needed elsewhere.
With the ones I always miss the most.
Them.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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 The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men’s Lives is a Killer |
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Photo credit: Benjamin Manley on Unsplash
