There are lots of terrible things about going through a crisis, but there are also a few silver linings, one of which is being reminded of how amazing your friends are, especially if you’ve been a little bit absent and stuck in your own little world lately between work and parenting and the holidays.
We are currently in the middle of a crisis which requires The Mister to be elsewhere with his family and at the same time requires me to be at home with the three year old going through the motions of our routine while pretending that everything is more or less normal. I do know, rationally, that I have a small but solid group of friends I can call upon in a pinch, but that doesn’t make it any less surprising or any less awe-inspiring to receive text after text of well wishes and offers of assistance.
One of my friends went so far as to announce to me last night that if I insisted that I didn’t need any company last night, Love Bombing will commence this evening whether I want it or not. And she’s absolutely right. Often times in such situations we say we want to be alone but we really don’t. Either because getting lost inside our own head isn’t helpful in such situations, or because we feel guilty about taking people away from their own lives to listen to us vent. For whatever reason, having help foisted on you in difficult situations is not necessarily unwelcome.
Love Bombing in this instance came in the form of company, port, and Camembert. The place now smells wonderfully of stinky cheese, I’ve got cracker crumbs on my shirt, and I’m definitely less than sober, thought I wouldn’t go so far as to say I was three sheets to the wind or anything.
There’s something additionally challenging to having to parent your way through a crisis, especially if that crisis involves splitting the parents up over long distance. We both know we are where we need to be, but we both want to be together. And no matter how serious the situation gets, you cannot maintain your frown or sulk while your three year old continues to chat about bum burps (how he’s referring to farts these days) and insists on feeding you imaginary peanut butter sandwiches from his IKEA kitchen. (Apparently, he keeps his bread under the sink, and the peanut butter in his bedroom. Go figure.) Whether you appreciate the distraction from your brooding or begrudge it, you are forced to set it aside and don a semblance of your normal self to avoid further distress to everyone.
I’m also pretty positive I had a few more profound thoughts on the topic, but the port and the insane desire to reacquaint myself with the inside of my bed right now have chased those thoughts right out of my head.
Also, I really need to stick the stinky cheese in the fridge.