Moo.

My therapist is having a baby.
I found out a few months ago.
And I was overjoyed for her. I love babies. And I love her. So…that all works out.
I thought it was cute and wonderful, and I cooed over her little baby bump and flushed cheeks, until I realized having a baby also meant she’d be going on maternity leave.
For three months.
Dear god.
Three months. All drugs, no hugs.
Baaaaaad baby.
That blissful one hour every week where I get to flip out and immediately receive confirmation that I’m not actually crazy? I’ll have to fill it with something else until March 31.

After spending an hour this morning airing some holiday grievances on my essentially defunct teen-years blog — so harsh I couldn’t even take it public — I was honestly looking forward to tonight’s session, my second to last before that little devil comes to shred the remnants of my delicate sanity.
Two more nights of venting and tissue-wetting on the big leatherette sofa, then I’m off on my own for three months. Just a few more blank stares off into the dentist’s office across the way before the baby comes.
Then my phone rang; it was her.
She has a cold. Right before Christmas. With child.
Yes, I understand.
Dear god.
So…one more appointment, then. Until the baby. And so much to discuss.

About a month ago, she told me I should consider spending a couple of hours each week on “self-care” in lieu of our sessions. Making an appointment with…myself. To better my mental health. Because that doesn’t sound crazy or anything.
But I get it.
Tonight, I will go downtown for therapy then stay up long past my bedtime prepping for guests at Christmas Eve dinner and obsessing over how I’ll fit 10 people into my tiny, stuffy apartment. Instead, I’ll go straight home, sit in pajamas by the Christmas tree with my cookbooks and back issues of Real Simple — maybe a mug of mint hot chocolate, too — and figure all that out. Like a well-adjusted grown-up.

The thought of three months of this, though? Yikes.
My therapist is having a baby, and I’m having a cow.
Sounds about right.

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One Response to “Moo.”

  1. Mr. Apron Says:

    I wish I could refer you to the therapist I saw in college. He was a ruddy-faced, apple-cheeked gay man topped with mounds of Irish-red hair, attired consistently in corduroy pants and thick, puffy snowflake sweaters.He'd never go on maternity leave.You'll be okay– you and your cow.

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