Greetings From the Suburbs of Sanity
A couple of days ago, I was cheering to some friends that my therapist will be back from maternity leave soon. A friend responded, “Party down to sanity town!”
therapy
The Winter When I Didn’t Completely Lose My Shit
Rowan slept through the night last night. This is not a drill. I repeat — Rowan slept through the night last night. This is the first time in many, many months that he has slept all the way through. On those occasions, my body was so used to waking up 29384029348 times in the night that I did not sleep well, anyhow.
You Get Therapy, You Get Therapy, Everyone Gets Therapy!
I was thinking I hadn’t felt all that depressed this winter. Then I realized that everyone else is also depressed so I’m only less depressed by comparison. It’s difficult to wallow in this temporary darkness when we are all engulfed in an existential muck. We are all Artax and we’re walking through the Swamp of Sadness. Even the most optimistic among us are Atreyu, at best — doomed to keep up that grim determination lest The Nothing descend upon us all.
When You Don’t Trust Birth and Your Therapist Gets Pregnant
I don’t trust birth.
Or pregnancy.
There. I said it.
I feel like I’m supposed to be a good little half-hippie, trusting birth and bodies and earthmothergoddessblahblahblah.
My Family Refuses to Let Me Put a Weeping Angel on Top of Our Tree
I finally, finally won the battle of the Christmas tree.
I recently wrote a piece for HuffPo about my general apathy for the prolonged Christmas season. The whole Christmas tree thing is slightly anxiety-producing on the best of years but this year, with a curious toddler who likes to climb things and I just was not feeling it.
At Least There Are No Rabid Donkeys Eating My Toes?
You may remember my general distaste for scales. Not the weighing type, but the type healthcare providers are always trying to use to measure subjective issues. Pain scales. Anxiety scales. That sort of thing.
Rowan’s 18 Month Appointment
Holy guacamole, Rowan is 18 months old. Pretty much all words I have to say about that are just cliche parenting lines about “my baby” and “time flies” and whatnot.