All kinds of seasons were cycling around me and I couldn't breathe. I couldn't keep up with how summer had turned to fall, how my baby had turned into someone who was big enough to be perceptive of emotions, into someone who handed me a leaf when I was sad.
All the craziness I'd set aside came rushing back -- fear of my own incompetence, suffocating guilt, terrified disbelief -- thinking of the weeks, months and years of monotonous chaos I was in for. Meanwhile, I couldn't imagine getting through even one day.
Why can't a mom go on vacation, just like everybody else, simply for the sake of the vacation itself? And where were these beliefs coming from? No one in my family was saying, or even thinking, these things. I was putting it on myself, yes.