|How many self-portraits can one take of oneself reading in 5 days? Stay tuned!|
Tried depriving Tristan of sleep all afternoon yesterday in an effort to provide myself with a less angsty wee-small hour of the morning. It would have worked if it weren't for the 3 other kids. Brynn had a bad dream, and then I had a bad dream about her kicking me repeatedly, (in affection) and jumping in and out of my bed at o'dark: thirty, and then being carried, at first gleefully and then with growing horror, back to her own bed; and then R2 awakening the dawn with screaming for no discernible reason, 3 times, 15 minutes or so apart. All this woke Toby up, who obediently stayed in his room until 8 am, and passed the time by playing drums and practicing his rebel yell. Then Tristan woke up. So. No time for introspection.
Until 8, that is, when I went to my very first therapy session. Do not be alarmed, I am not in a deep depression or a crisis of faith. I've just run into my heart coming and going and somehow life got complicated. It was a great appointment, where she did psychologisty stuff like making me argue with myself until I agreed with Self 1 or 2 and it worked. I actually figured out how I feel and what I should do. Amazing.
So today was productive, what with the emotional relief and then some random sporadic cleaning, because, obviously, no internet. Also, I've started journalling again and I forgot how much I both love it, because I get to write my thoughts on a paper, and hate it, because someday my grandkids will read it and think I was a gripy, grouchy woman. Dear grandchildren: read this blog instead, where I mostly say upbeat things and never complain about your grandfather, whom I love. Oh, wait...
Is this thing over yet? I need to watch some Christmas movies.
Day 3 in the can, 4 to go.