Next week, I’ll be off on an adventure with my closest friend. Here’s the truth: I won’t miss my child in the slightest.
We’ll be away for four days and nights, luxuriating in our own spaces, enjoying steaming showers daily, and sipping coffee while it’s still hot enough to make your face feel like it’s melting from the steam. Our days will be filled with hours of meaningful adult conversations, occasionally punctuated by natural pauses, bike rides, and peaceful strolls in nature. I’ll drift off to sleep whenever I choose and wake up with the sun, somewhere between the early dawn and whatever time feels right. I can savor a second glass of wine without worrying about anyone else, knowing my only nighttime responsibility is myself.
Sure, I’ll feel a twinge of longing for my toddler, particularly during his bedtime routine. I’ll miss snuggling him as he drifts off to sleep, feeling the comforting weight of his small, tired body in my arms, and enjoying our delightful pre-sleep rituals filled with laughter and songs.
But that’s about it.
I’m completely serious. From the moment I learned I was pregnant, I eagerly anticipated letting someone else take on some of the responsibilities of nurturing my child. While I didn’t want to completely hand over the reins, I craved a partner in this journey. (And yes, his dad is an incredible co-parent—like the Alton Brown of fatherhood.)
The first months with my son were particularly intense. After suffering a stroke shortly after birth, he spent his initial week in the NICU. I pumped milk every three hours while keeping a constant vigil by his side for 20 hours a day, feeling utterly helpless as he fought for his life. After six long days in the hospital, I was overjoyed to bring him home, but just two days later, I was itching for a little time alone. I pumped milk, put him down for a nap, and left him in my husband’s capable hands for three glorious hours, driven by the urgent need to relieve the pressure in my chest.
Fast forward seven months, and our lives shifted again when my son was diagnosed with life-threatening food allergies. We found ourselves mostly homebound, and I was overwhelmed with anxiety. I counted down the minutes until my husband returned or bedtime rolled around so I could escape the house for a couple of hours, just to breathe.
Now that my toddler is thriving and our lives have settled, I still crave those breaks. I need space—to think, to process, to simply be. I often find myself in need of solitary moments, whether for an hour, a day, or even a week. While these moments might be rare, I recognize their importance for my own well-being.
I actively fight against the notion that I’m failing at motherhood. I know many moms feel guilt about stepping away from their children, and I can’t relate to that.
Being a mother cannot be my only identity; it’s overwhelming. And here’s the truth: I need more. Yes, I said it—the thing society tells moms not to admit. I need connections, but not too many, as crowds can be overwhelming. I require alone time to recharge and be the engaged mother my child deserves. He’s like Venus in my universe, but he can’t be the Sun. If I’m honest, stepping away from my son helps me reconnect with my desire to be present when I return.
Perhaps some will judge me as a selfish mom, but really, it’s about maintaining my sanity. So, I’ll relish in hot coffee, long walks, and child-free moments, knowing that when I return, I can be the grounded, present mom my little Venus needs.
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In summary, taking a break from motherhood is not only okay but essential for personal well-being. It allows parents to recharge and return to their children with renewed energy and presence, shaping a healthier family dynamic.