For eight weeks, the house has been falling into gradual chaos. Not the best way to prepare for a move halfway across the country. After a week of feeling listless–while trying to ignore the source of my intense heart ache–I knew I needed help. Talking it over with Ben, I decided to call my mom. Already planning on taking the kids to make moving easier, I asked if she might come a week early. Without hesitation (well, maybe a 2-day delay), she drove 6 hours to help.
Packing their little shirts, pants, socks, and shoes, I kept repeating, “This is a good idea.” I even made a mental list.
- Because we’ll be selling/donating/boxing the stuff in our apartment, keeping the kids at Grandma’s house will help lessen their anxieties over the great changes occurring.
- To begin selling/donating/boxing our stuff, I need time without little children under foot.
- To finish school (a few independent study classes), Ben needs unlimited and focused time to study, write, and prepare for his finals.
- Since I will be cleaning, the kids need a place to roam with entertainment that doesn’t include Super Why! or Sesame Street.
- Due to the most recent loss, Ben and I are experiencing intense grief and have limited emotional availability. The kids need a place with unrestricted love and availability.
But this list doesn’t stop the guilt from building. I feel like I’m suffocating even though I know it’s a good idea. I am questioning my ability as a mother because I can’t fight through my grief and be what my kids need. For the past week, I claimed victory that I actually got up, fed the kids, and changed their diapers. Heck, if I showered and dressed the kids I gave myself 2 stars. But that’s not enough. They need so much more.
It’s great that Grandma has taken them. They will be surrounded by Aunts and Uncles, vying for their attention. They will be well fed, regularly bathed, and, best of all, endlessly loved.
Then why do I feel so lost?