I’m sick. It came on last night like a freight train and knocked me on my butt.
But instead of sleeping it off and relaxing, I’m sitting here stressing out. Stressing over the piles of laundry and the sink full of dishes that aren’t getting done. Stressing over the hundreds of emails I haven’t responded to. Stressing over the stack of bills I keep meaning to pay. Over the little league meeting I’m supposed to be at. The dinner I have to cook. Stressing over the millions of things that I have to do so the world—my little world—doesn’t fall apart.
Why is it so hard for moms to take care of ourselves? Why do we feel guilty and stressed and like we have to do it all, even when we’re legitimately sick? Why can’t we let it go? Is it just me, or are we all wired like this?
“The world isn’t going to end if you take a day off,” Gabe said this morning as he brought me a cup of tea. “Relax.”
I know he’s right. He’s so, so right. And I want to follow his advice.
I want to crawl under the covers and sleep it off. But I can’t. And I hate that I can’t.
I want to ask for help and let someone take care of me. But I can’t. And I hate that I can’t.
I want to stop running myself into the ground. But I can’t. And I hate that I can’t.
I hate it so much, that I’m going to stop it.
For today at least, I’m going to force myself to pull up the duvet and forget the five million things nagging at me and I’m going to sleep. Just sleep.
I’m going to forget about the laundry.
I’m going to leave the dishes.
I’m going to get to those emails later and send Dad to the little league meeting.
I’m going to ask for help. And I’m going to accept it.
Today, I’m going to put myself first. Well, at least I’m going to try.