Remember to Take Care of Yourself
Remember to take care of yourself.
This is what they say to you.
Doctors. Friends. Family. Therapists.
You need to take care of yourself. Remember if you don't take care of yourself you won't be able to take care of your children.
Okey dokey. Sure thing. I'll do THAT.
I mean, I do the basics. I do. I wash myself. I feed myself. I exercise.
But I wash myself while three children ask me for things. I feed myself for four minutes between feeding my children and calming a crying child. I exercise while also getting milk for my three year old, while also getting breakfast for my oldest child, while also getting clothes out for my six year old to wear.
I take care of myself. I don't engage in self-destructive behavior. I stay solid, just in case one of my kids needs me to shuttle them to an emergency room at any given moment. I take care of myself because nobody else will take care of my children if I don't.
But the comment, said with the best intentions, is felt like a little dagger. I hate people for a few seconds when they say it.
It is like they believe I am voluntarily choosing to work full time and spend my days taking care of three kids, from 5:45 a.m. until 10 p.m., juggling the responsibilities of caring for children and a household, and instead, I should really stop that and find time to paint and sip, or knit, or travel with friends.
Remember to take care of yourself.
I would remember to take care of myself, if there were time for me to remember. But I am busy remembering to fold laundry, to sign permission slips, to buy training pants, to pay for school lunches, to make doctor's appointments for my kids... my brain is busy remembering everything I need to remember to adequately care for three kids.
Remember to take care of yourself.
When I leave the house to make time for myself, my eight year old gets scared. Last week she threw her body against the door and begged me not to leave. She gets scared I will not come back. I understand her worry. She needs therapy. I need to remember to find her a therapist here in a new town.
Remember to take care of yourself.
I tell you what. Why don't you come over to my house, and wash my dishes, and make 67 pieces of toast for my children, and replace the lightbulbs in the bathroom, and pay for the trash removal, and go on Amazon to order the kids new clothes, and wipe their noses, and deal with their separation anxiety? Why don't you come stay with my three children for two weeks, and I will go to Hawaii and remember how to take care of myself?
Until you are ready to do that, to step into my shoes and take all of these responsibilities off my hand, and understand what it truly means to be an only parent, please remember to not tell me to remember to take care of myself.
This is what they say to you.
Doctors. Friends. Family. Therapists.
You need to take care of yourself. Remember if you don't take care of yourself you won't be able to take care of your children.
Okey dokey. Sure thing. I'll do THAT.
I mean, I do the basics. I do. I wash myself. I feed myself. I exercise.
But I wash myself while three children ask me for things. I feed myself for four minutes between feeding my children and calming a crying child. I exercise while also getting milk for my three year old, while also getting breakfast for my oldest child, while also getting clothes out for my six year old to wear.
I take care of myself. I don't engage in self-destructive behavior. I stay solid, just in case one of my kids needs me to shuttle them to an emergency room at any given moment. I take care of myself because nobody else will take care of my children if I don't.
But the comment, said with the best intentions, is felt like a little dagger. I hate people for a few seconds when they say it.
It is like they believe I am voluntarily choosing to work full time and spend my days taking care of three kids, from 5:45 a.m. until 10 p.m., juggling the responsibilities of caring for children and a household, and instead, I should really stop that and find time to paint and sip, or knit, or travel with friends.
Remember to take care of yourself.
I would remember to take care of myself, if there were time for me to remember. But I am busy remembering to fold laundry, to sign permission slips, to buy training pants, to pay for school lunches, to make doctor's appointments for my kids... my brain is busy remembering everything I need to remember to adequately care for three kids.
Remember to take care of yourself.
When I leave the house to make time for myself, my eight year old gets scared. Last week she threw her body against the door and begged me not to leave. She gets scared I will not come back. I understand her worry. She needs therapy. I need to remember to find her a therapist here in a new town.
Remember to take care of yourself.
I tell you what. Why don't you come over to my house, and wash my dishes, and make 67 pieces of toast for my children, and replace the lightbulbs in the bathroom, and pay for the trash removal, and go on Amazon to order the kids new clothes, and wipe their noses, and deal with their separation anxiety? Why don't you come stay with my three children for two weeks, and I will go to Hawaii and remember how to take care of myself?
Until you are ready to do that, to step into my shoes and take all of these responsibilities off my hand, and understand what it truly means to be an only parent, please remember to not tell me to remember to take care of myself.
Thanks for sharing. I cared for my son in a chronic vegetative state (coma) for 13 years, while working and raising another son. I heard this all the time. I was able to afford a qualified caregiver 4 hours a week. Woo hoo...Friday night I get a four hour break. But they all showed up at the memorial to commiserate. I would rather they had showed up at my house a few years earlier for a few hours. Rick ( Ropeman on Twitter)
ReplyDeleteSuch powerful words. Anyone who is a sole caretaker can relate. Thanks for saying what many of us think.
ReplyDeleteIf I were there I would -- most of it, anyway.
ReplyDeleteIf you were here I would -- most of it anyway.
As I said, there must be hundreds or thousands of us who care about you and your beautiful children.
Try to forget those scumbags.
And thanks for writing. Cathartic, perhaps. But also beautiful and sensitive. Thanks.