being real
I was sitting in my counselor Celeste’s office one afternoon, discussing how I was doing in general. The circumstances surrounding my marriage were a little more stable and we had temporarily branched off to my personal life including the day to day jive as a mother. The topic of stress came up and I relayed to her that I was constantly overwhelmed at home with our four small children. Wanting to dig a little deeper, Celeste asked which specific responsibilities were considered mine in our family.
I happily replied, riddling off a Santa-length list from the never-ending laundry to the tedious annual tax preparations and everything in between. There were the groceries, doctor’s appointments, homework help, dishes, cloth diapers, dinner, school lunches, bathrooms to clean, clothes shopping, balancing the checkbook, bills, and so on. It took a while to fill her in on the entire scope of what I was managing, and at last, I was done. It felt good having successfully portrayed the uphill battle I greeted every morning and I waited anxiously for her response. I expected a gasp of amazement, her eyes growing as large as my to-do list, but she just sat there pondering and a moment of silence ensued. It was the next question that completely caught me off guard.
