“I don’t want to see them,” I thought to myself guiltily. I’d scheduled a get together with a couple of my closest friends and now it was pouring rain. Honestly, it was more than the rain. I’ve been in a diagnostic season for the last few months, with names and therapies and doctors piling onto my kids. I’m in a binder-making season, a paperworky season. Basically, I’ve been standing still while a fire hose of labels shoots at me point blank. And now it was raining.
I texted that I didn’t think I could make it.
“Why did I have to write a book about making mom friends?” I wondered ruefully. Because now I have to freaking practice what I preach and hang out with my friends when I’d rather stay under this blanket with the dog feeling scared and alone studying terms and acronyms for my next meeting at the school.
My phone buzzed. “Come! We will comfort you and support you!” the text read. Well, how can you argue with that. I peeled my body off the couch, resituated the dog on the blanket, and put on my shoes, feeling the ache in my muscles from too many weeks of feeling tense.
Driving over, the weight of the world squeezed my brain tiny. I had nothing to give, no energy to be a halfway decent friend. I was too pissy to be lovable.
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