I don’t usually want pity. I love my family. I have a great life. There is really no reason for you to pity me.
Except.
Sometimes when I’m having a bad day, I would really like your pity. I would. Like when I took the kids to Kohl’s for a quick return and Olivia is laying on the ground refusing to get up, taking shoes off the shelf, throwing gift cards at the people behind us, and trying to kiss strangers, I feel ridiculous. I want you to give me a big bear hug, offer me a glass of wine and a huge dose of pity. I know that’s not very “special needs Mom” of me…but it’s the truth.
When I’m cleaning up messy business of my almost-10-year old that I hope each and every day won’t happen anymore, I want you to feel sorry for me.
When I’m cleaning up the flooded bathroom for the umpteenth time of the day, I want you to say “Poor her.”
I do. You can judge me for saying it outloud if you want, but it’s the truth. Sometimes I want you to know that it’s hard. And I want a pity party.