I think it's time, I said to a therapist friend last night. Then I stopped, a little anxious at my own daring. I think it's time, I said softly, to start thinking more about myself.
Duh! she said. Well, not in so many words.
Iwas still a little surprised. You see, I don't have a martyr's habits. I don't "sacrifice" myself for my kids -- and let everyone know. I don't deny myself the eye shadow, or the velvet jacket (on sale, of course). I buy milk chocolate and strong tea from England (dark comes from Trader Joes).
But, like many mothers, I tend to live in the shadow's of my kids crushes, academic successes, failures, jokes, friendships. Given the chance to hang out with my children or go out on a date, I'll almost invariably choose the kids.
Where does responsible parenting end and, eh, fear begin? Or cynicism? I've protected my children from any hint that there have been, for fleeting moments, men in my life. They don't need to be dragged into it, I reason. It's better that they know I'm here if they need me.
Easier to be the counselor, the confessor, the journalist, than the lover.
But I've got the sense that this might care have been as much for my sake, as it was for my children. Daring to imagine a relationship -- how do I start?
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