I venture out for coffee, my five-year-old daughter in tow. We have been staying here for a couple days now, Wi-Fi has yet to be set up, beds have yet to be delivered.
But it’s nice. A variation on glamping.
The walls are painted therapeutic colors and we enjoy a time of simple living—away from the clutter and disparate energies of our former home.
She misses the old home.
I can’t say I do.
Her memories are more rose-colored, appropriate for her name, as well as her age.
We still spend some time in our old home. And our trip back to the new home isn’t without resistance from this little being, one-sixth my age, but with just as much gusto and willpower.
The one thing we agree on—kitty is waiting for our return at the new place.
The moment I visited this property, my soul felt at home. Now another piece of my soul is here—our lovely kitty, our spirit animal, she holds our heart.
She binds us together.
She was there through all the hardship. Even before I knew there was any. She meowed for me when I had to leave for a couple nights for safety, he tried to convince me to come back cuz kitty missed me.
A year later, she was there when we started co-parenting and my five-year-old had her first sleepover at her dad’s.
I missed her. Oh how much I missed her.
But I wasn’t alone.
For kitty slept at my feet that night.
The home wasn’t as cold, the world was that much less heartless.
Kitty was there.
And so, my five-year-old and I both agree, we must get back for kitty.
So once again, we stay at our new place. And when the morning comes and it’s time to caffeinate and build some new furniture, we take a trip to Starbucks.
The perfect place for a tantrum.
At least my daughter thinks so.
It’s not her fault. She can’t eat regular food cuz it’s Passover. Getting her into the car was a struggle to get there. Convincing her she couldn’t have a cake pop? A downright debacle!
And within it all—
I figured out why it’s so difficult being a parent sometimes.
Cuz the kid is all about their suffering and their hardship.
And the parent has just as much pain if not more.
And has to compartmentalize, like at work.
And push it down.
And that’s never been a natural strength of mine.
I suppose that’s why Kristen Neff put her hand on her heart when her son was having a tantrum on an airplane (see Kristen Neff’s book Self-Compassion for that anecdote).
Well, I don’t have a well of self-compassion to draw from.
I’m working on managing my inner critic but it’s quite deep-seated.
And I have layers of recent and previous traumas that I’m still healing.
The storm passes. Daughter obeys mama.
We exit the car, rain still heavily pouring down (which storm, did you think I meant?).
We begin building.
And re-building.
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