Therapy

Yesterday afternoon I was having a rough time. Jack flew an airplane into my head twice, so I snapped at him, so he started crying. (But come ON, Jack, if you stop trying to fly it OVER my head, chances are good it will stop flying INTO my head. Aim elsewhere.)

Caroline was mad at me because I picked her up from a playdate, right when the mom wanted her picked up. Somehow that was unfair and I was at fault. (Yes. It’s a fun age.)

I wasn’t hungry and I really, really, really did not feel like cooking dinner. Yes, I cook dinner, usually seven nights a week, largely due to the fact that I need to make something for my dad. But sometimes I just want to feed the kids mac and cheese and not worry about me or Whit or my dad.

And I was still mad about some things that had happened over the weekend, and I felt like the mad was bottled up inside. When I’m mad and can’t get over it, I need to rant and rave and then I will see what was funny about it and then, after the ranting and the laughing, I’ll be over it.

I needed intense therapy.

I’m serious – I’m not making fun of therapy. I totally get why people pay someone to listen to them rant and rave and purge themselves of all the built-up anger and emotion we all seem to carry at any given moment, just because we’re human.

But I can’t afford real therapy, and I don’t have the time to indulge in the luxury of regular appointments where I get to talk about myself.

So I called Whit and said, “Please just call my dad and ask him to meet you out for dinner.”

And I called a friend and said, “Get over here, stat.”

She said, “Pour me a glass of wine and I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

She walked in wearing a bikini top and shorts. I made a few WT jokes, and asked where the double-wide was parked, but she said, “I was IN THE POOL ten minutes ago.” Then I just appreciated the speed with which she drove to my house. She totally got it.

I was the anti-hostess, because she wasn’t there to be served. I just rooted through the fridge and pulled out leftovers from a Memorial Day cookout and threw them on the table. I didn’t even get her a plate; I figured she could fend for herself.

While she ate dinner and I fixed the kids their dinner, I stomped around the kitchen and complained and bitched and probably raised my voice and let all the mad out.

And then, yes indeed, I realized how funny the whole anger-inciting situation was. This friend has had a ringside seat to my life for almost ten years, and she marvels at how, as she puts it, there’s just never a dull moment. Looking at everything through her eyes makes it funnier.

Then I looked at the clock, and it was 7:00, and I had to get the kids moving toward showers and bed, so I hugged her and kicked her out.

I got my hour of therapy.

And I felt like a million bucks.

So if you’re the kind of friend who will drop everything and park your half-naked self in someone’s kitchen and eat leftovers and drink wine and listen to an hour of looney tunes complaining, then thank you, on behalf of all us crazy moms who need unconventional but highly effective friend therapy.

There's just nothing quite like it.