Since we’ve found “waking up before the children” to be out of reach for the time-being, we’re re-grouping. New strategy.
Dina and I have simply decided to take turns. Morning shifts! Whoever wakes up first takes the first shift. This generally means breakfast. Whoever wakes up second takes the second shift, which generally means clean-up. “Generally” means various other elements weave through, like going potty or brushing teeth or getting dressed or mediating shenanigans. Our collective goal is to be ready for the day, so that we can take the kids to the YMCA. Two hours of guilt-free childcare is worth its weight in gold.
And, this is how I plan to build writing time into the mix!
Our rhythms wriggle around in an ongoing attempt to settle. Dina and I have noticed that ANY ASPECT of our operational patterning reflective of a reality in which we don’t feel seen, safe, or fully supported pops up hard. The vortex we have co-created holds us deeply accountable; whenever we’re running in overdrive, stuck in habituated survival mode, we seem to injure ourselves.
In my last post, I casually mentioned a great green lump on my forehead. Today it has turned more of a mustard yellow. Here’s how it happened:
I had just arrived home, later than planned, from a long day. Rose was asleep in her car seat. Lily was chatty. The need for multiple trips in and out of the house loomed ahead of me. I proceeded forward in such a fashion as to do everything faster, in order to feel more complete, sooner. I scooped up some bags and headed for the front door. Grabbed our mail on my way. Finessed the lock open, put everything down on the floor, spun around to go back for Lily, and RAMMED my forehead into the hard wood corner of the door frame. I immediately doubled over, sobbing.
I pulled myself together and continued with my tasks, lump rising from my forehead like a horn. Once I had gotten everything settled, I sat down on the couch to let more tears out. My face felt like a bulging floodgate. Lily snuggled up beside me and gently placed her hand against my cheek, occasionally wiping tears away and saying sweet things like, “I’ve hurt myself before, too.”
I sensed that a significant percentage of the pain I was processing had less to do with my head injury and more to do with stored strain from the chronic overdrive. For several days, additional tears came in waves. I let them.
Softening, and strengthening. Catching my breath. Letting my inner world expand so that external demands don’t pull me out of my body. Allowing this regenerative paradigm to lovingly guide realignment and rewire my nervous system. I’m not carrying this alone. Make myself at home.