Unbearable Lightness

Yesterday morning I left my son with a woman he hardly knows while I went to get a massage.

Now read that line again, this time in the manner of someone standing up to introduce themselves at their first AA meeting.
You should be a little closer to appreciating how bad I felt.

It all sort of snowballed: first, I decided to book a massage with a colleague’s daughter (she’s a beautician), then the only slot available was Wednesday (my day off), then my colleague offered to look after BB while I had the massage, then I protested that I couldn’t possibly, then she insisted that of course I could, then I said thank you but no, I would feel too bad, then she said of course you can, it won’t hurt him…
There were repeat performances of this discussion for a few more days, and then we agreed that I would do it.

Then massage day came and the guilt started to cloy at my skin like some kind of creepy hot oil treatment.
We pitched up at my colleague’s house, and BB promptly burst into tears. He sobbed and clung to me for dear life. And that was before I’d even taken his coat off.
We sat him down and spread out about twenty familiar toys around him, gave him a biscuit (always worth a try) and made a lot of soothing, cooing, “aren’t you lucky to be here!” sounds.
He upped the volume, chest heaving, and clung to my knees in heart-breaking desperation.
“I can’t do it!” I told my colleague weakly.
“Of course you can! Just go, quickly, and relax!” she enthused.
So I prised myself away and left, feeling utterly miserable, and as far away from “relaxed” as it’s possible to be in a non-life threatening situation.

By the time I’d arrived at the Massage Parlour (is that what you call those places?) – a mere five-minute drive away – my colleague had already phoned. Phoned to say what: that BB had worked himself into an epileptic fit? Deliberately banged his head against the wall in despair?
No, she phoned to say that he had stopped crying the minute I left the house; indeed, was already giggling and exploring his new surroundings by the time my Twingo edged its guilty way out of the driveway.
Relief. And confusion. Had my 1-year-old BB been trying out some – dare I say it? – emotional blackmail?!

So I had the massage and it was very pleasant. I rushed back to collect BB, expecting something akin to a hero’s welcome. He looked up briefly from his game, arched an eyebrow, then smiled beatifically at his new babysitter.

We had lunch, came home, and all was right with the world.

Except that I’m so emotionally drained, I could really do with a good massage…