Girls Night Out
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Group Therapy |
by Kelli Wheeler
Dip me in salt and call me Margarita, I love Girls’ Night Out.
There’s nothing better for a weary mother’s soul than a “hall pass” for some girl talk, a good adult beverage, and food that is absolutely delicious because you didn’t have to cook it yourself or clean it up.
My mom friends and I usually get together at least once a month to celebrate birthdays, catch a good chick fl ick, and for an actual, organized Girls’ Night Out. We’ve even given it an offi cial title so our husbands can’t balk at another outing.
“But it’s Culinary Queens, Honey! You know I have The Queens every fi rst Tuesday of the month. The girls are counting on me to bring ‘Gramma’s Chocolate-Chocolate Cake.’ ” And wine. Lots of wine.
Recently, The Queens (as we call ourselves) managed to parlay the regular get-together into a ski weekend at Donner Lake. We’re really thinking we should just drop the “culinary” part all together and take the Queens on the road to Vegas or Cabo.
Of course, we understand the other half of our parenting team, Dad, needs a break too. Not to fear, The Queens have included their men every few months with a Culinary Queens & Kings event. Heck, we’ve even offered regular hall passes so their man contingent can go out to the Luna Lounge for Cougar Appreciation Night or fantasy draft something.
However, it’s not our fault that guys just don’t know how to properly and frequently assemble in the name of good chitchat, gossip and venting.
We women, after years of traveling in packs as teenagers, clumping in cliques, and going in groups to the bathroom, have learned there is no better way to deal with stress and manage anxiety than assembling a support group.
I love Girls’ Night Out.
What better way to come together in the name of preserving sanity than by getting a bunch of gals together one night a month (preferably with wine) for commiseration and validation? Grabbing some Junior Mints and Red Vines and indulging in a little drooling over the young hotties in the “Twilight” movies doesn’t hurt, either.
It doesn’t matter how fabulous your family might be; a night out as anyone other than Mom is essential to parenting mental wellness. Women—mothers—have fi gured this out.
It doesn’t matter if we end up talking about our kids most of the time, anyway. In fact, conferring with other moms about everything from picky eaters, to growth spurts that keep you running to Target, to the best brand of diapers or cheapest price in town for Pirate’s Booty helps make our jobs easier by sharing advice and providing insight.
It’s not just about talking shop, though. We catch up on each other’s lives because we’ve been too busy running carpools or organizing the school’s fundraiser to pick up the phone. We fi nd out the best places to splurge on a pedicure, who’s got the cheapest hairdresser to cover the grays, which exercises tone your inner thighs, when not to go bathing suit shopping, and we ooh and ah over new purses, shoes and accessories.
Sure, we also might air a few husband grievances. But when we realize everyone else’s husbands don’t turn their socks right-side-in before laundry, either, or leave toothpaste spit in the sink right after you cleaned the bathroom, or pout like a little kid when they have to wait until after “American Idol” for a little sugar, then it becomes funny instead of frustrating.
Whether your Girls’ Night Out is Culinary Queens, Bunko, Book Club, Dining Divas, Scrapbooking, going to dinner, a movie, a bar, dancing, or fi nding a home where the kids have been cleared out, never doubt you don’t deserve that time to laugh and play. Any smart husband knows, for family unity and harmony, you don’t want to stand in the way of this.
Trust me, it’s cheaper than therapy.
Kelli Wheeler is an award winning family columnist and author of the book Momservations - The Fine Print of Parenting.” For purchasing information or to contact her, go to Kellimwheeler.com.
A “Momservations” book-signing event will be held from 10:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. Saturday, June 5, at Koukla Kids, 3809 J Street. For more information, call 254-5437.
by Kelli Wheeler
It was nine years ago this month that the great Mother’s Day Mommy Meltdown of 2001 occurred. That was the day I lost it in spectacular form and sobbed uncontrollably all over my husband’s shirt about how hard it was to be a mother. My husband, Trey, still keeps the mascarastained T-shirt as a reminder of how far we’ve come as parents.
The incident seems a lifetime ago in childhood development measurement, but I still remember it vividly: the feeling of teetering on the brink of sleepless, overwhelmed sanity ready to jump because giving up just seemed easier; the profound jealously of watching everyone else lounge carefree on a beautiful spring day by the pool with adult beverages, while I was stuck inside with an irritable newborn on my excruciatingly sore breasts; seeing my husband chase our busy toddler around the pool making sure he didn’t fall in to disastrous results, while my sister-in-law’s kids splashed away needing no supervision. All on a day meant to celebrate me and my new motherhood.
Finally, as I tried to suppress my irritation and summon the last ounce of patience for my inconsolable infant daughter, I heard someone from outside say, “Hey, I haven’t seen Kelli in awhile. Is she OK in there?”
“No! No, she’s not OK!” I cried out, finally giving into tears of frustration.
That’s when Trey popped his head in the side door with a look of startled concern, quickly recruited his mom to take the baby and entrusted his sister with our 18-month-old. Then he wrapped his arms around me, gently leading me to the front yard for a good cry.
“It’s too hard!” I sobbed, shoving my face into his chest. “Everyone says it’s going to get easier, but it’s not! I want to know when! When is it going to get easier?”
“Every day it’ll get easier,” Trey soothed, rubbing my back. “Every day will be one day closer to the kids growing up, becoming less dependent. Each day, you’ll have more experience and you’ll get a good routine going.”
Still not convinced, I just cried harder.
Trey tried another angle. “You can always call my mom if you need help, or one of your friends. I’m here to help. Remember, this is the hardest part of having kids 17 months apart. It can only get easier from here. You’ll see—before you know it Logan will be in kindergarten and Whitney will be in preschool and you’ll have some time to yourself again.”
“But that’s almost five years!” I looked up at him in horror, black mascara tears streaming down my face. “I can’t wait five years! I won’t make it!” I collapsed back into his chest at the spot where my anguish would permanently leave a mark in a dark smudge.
Of course, Trey was right (I admit grudgingly, as he is most of the time). Once I calmed down, was given a reprieve thanks to my family support group, and became rational again with the help of some chocolate, I knew it would indeed all be OK.
Cut to Mother’s Day 2010 and I’m ready to lose it again. This time not because parenting is hard and the challenges are many, although that never goes away—they just take a different form.
I’m crying now because my children’s new discoveries are fewer, firsts further apart, wonder in diminishing supply, and their innocence is taking a back seat to life experience. It has all happened too fast. Every day will be one day closer to the kids growing up, becoming less dependent.
In this first decade of motherhood I have come to appreciate each and every precious moment with my kids. I miss cradling my daughter to sleep because she is a fussy baby, staring into her big brown eyes so trusting that I can make it all better.
I miss snuggling on the top bunk with my young son, reading him books because there is nowhere else he’d rather be. The triumph of becoming potty-trained and wearing big boy/girl underwear; the first time they cracked an egg while making cookies together; the wonder of if raindrops ever miss a spot; the amazement at butterflies and snowflakes; the delighted discovery of presents from Santa, eggs from the Easter Bunny and a dollar from the Tooth Fairy; the simple joys of bubbles.
In this next decade I will see my babies learn to drive, go to the prom, graduate from high school, leave for college, and maybe even fall in love for the first time. Soon I’ll have some time to myself again, yet now I don’t want it.
As Mother’s Day approaches and I reflect back nine years ago when I thought being a mother was too hard—it still is. Only now it’s not the physical demands that are taxing me. It’s the emotional workout of loving your children so much that it takes your breath away to think of them not needing you anymore.
Pull out and put on the Mother’s Day Mommy Meltdown T-shirt, Honey—we’re about to take it for another spin.