This is the second time we have tried to attend a “New Members Shabbat” and failed. The first time it was because I crashed into a car on our way home from the United States Mint. This time, it was because I was being an excellent parent. (Boundaries set, limits warned, deadlines missed, sadness held.)
Sadness held: that’s really all it takes. It’s so simple that it sometimes feels impossible. He was distraught — truly — when I said we couldn’t go because he hadn’t held up his end of the bargain in the allotted time. But once the decision was made and his initial explosion of tears had subsided, he buried his head into my shoulder for at least twenty minutes, intermittently weeping and talking about how very, very, very sad he was (not angry, not frustrated, just really sad.) And when it was over, it was over. And the two of us sat together and designed a map of the ultimate aquarium before agreeably heading upstairs to read stories and go to bed.
I was scolded this afternoon when I chose to go see a movie instead of finish my submission for my writing group. I had been sitting and working on it for hours, but I kept getting caught up in this impenetrable web of…what? Emotions? Maybe. I’m realizing that trying to write about the same topic you’re trying to tackle in therapy is maybe not the best idea. I had to check out and go watch the story of Whitey Bulger — let myself be held by two hours of decadently accurate Boston accents.
I came home, though, and once everyone was else was in bed, I got back to it. Eked out five pages before midnight. That has to count for something, right?