Each Saturday for the last few months I’ve had a whole hour to myself. An hour. Sixty minutes.
During that time Sprog sits and talks to someone else. A counsellor.
As an aside – my father was apparently horrified that I had chosen to seek and pay for counselling for my child. The joy of British middle class ‘stiff upper lip’ parenting mentality.
I’ve used the time in different ways – sometimes I simply sit with a book, a mug of tea and a slice of something totally not Paleo in the cafe on site where the sessions are held. Most often I use the hour to rattle through my inbox and answer stuff I’ve not caught up with.
Today I’ve sat in the car. The cafe is closed. The sun is shining. Yet I feel like I’ve the weight of the world crushing me. I just want to sleep.
These one hour sessions give Sprog much needed time and space to explore what’s going on. There is so much going on there that I wish I could just ‘fix’.
I know a fix is not the solution. But at the end of the sixty minutes I always want to squeeze Sprog so tight – so tight to fix the pain and hurt.