Last night I went to a happy hour, which is a rare occurrence for me. It was fun for a while, but by the end of the evening the discussion devolved into a bitch fest about a subject I found upsetting. The worst part about it was the realization that I was awkwardly sitting through an unpleasant conversation instead of going home in time to put my kids to bed.
When my son was an infant I became one of those hermit moms. I rarely went anywhere or did anything other than be with my baby. I loved my baby. He made me happy. Why would I do anything else?
Once I finally made myself do crazy, decadent things like spend time with friends or see an occasional show I realized that I actually was happier if I did some things that didn’t involve my baby. Now with a 4-year-old and a 6-year-old I probably still don’t go out on my own as often as I should, but I’m getting better at nourishing more aspects of myself than just the mommy part.
I am picky about doing things that will make me miss time with my kids. Even when I’m having fun I tend to think of them. If I’m not having fun I regret not staying with them.
After my not-so-happy happy hour, I came home and hung out with my husband for a while then I went up to bed. When I went upstairs I found that both my kids had snuck into my bed.
Often I would begrudge the encroachment on my space, but last night I was happy to see them and to snuggle in between them. That was my happy hour.
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Kim Z. Dale 