On Saturday I was sentenced to an afternoon of relaxation–quite a tall order.

I was armed with a litany of reasons as to why The Husband’s spa gift to me was so desperately needed. The Kid received his first vaccinations on Friday, several shots to the legs, and as a consequence had taken to losing his shit on an even more regular basis than the naptime and early evening fussiness that casts a shadow on his otherwise pleasant existence. On the flip side, he had begun sleeping through the night; however, this did not translate to my sleeping through the night as I awoke in a panic multiple times and listened for his breathing through the monitor, shirt soaked through with leaking milk (you’re welcome for that image). My toenails were approaching Dumb and Dumber status–after the past few months in which I had not been able to bend over and attend them, a chainsaw approach was a looming possibility. My back was riddled with knots. My face had seen brighter days. So I pumped a bottle for TK and climbed into the car, headed for my date with the spa.

I remember a time in New York when I decided to try out a yoga class at my gym. Work ran late that day (naturally), so I was hurriedly bobbing through human traffic on my way to Grand Central. Get the hell out of my way so I can get to yoga class and effing RELAX! I yelled in my head to the flesh-and-blood obstacles surrounding me, noting the irony of that statement without any sense of humor. During my five-minute drive to the spa, I faced a similar irony: Move out of my way so I can have this relaxing massage, facial, and pedicure and get back to feed my screaming kid!

The facialist informed me that I needed to exfoliate better; the pedicurist chided me for having heels coated with dead skin; the masseur delivered the death blow while kneading my knotted back and pointing out the fact that my left side was much worse than my right.

I carry The Kid with my left arm.

I thought about it later while I was feeding him, about how he is completely dependent on others for not only his survival but his transportation. He can’t move more than an inch without someone getting him there, an arm or a pair of them carrying him. I thought about how, my whole life, I’ve been a victim of my own overweening effort: stressing myself out with deadlines and goals and books on childcare and unrealistic, later unmet, expectations. Landing myself in yoga classes and spas that show me just how deadly my doing is. I thought about all the ways I’ve been carried–about people who look out for me and love much better than I do; about how that love is often communicated by holding my hands still and taking my burden on. About how “I believe in you” is not just an expression of faith, but a promise to stay–and love. About how that love is not attained through effort. TK lands in my arms, daily, without trying. And I, thank God, have arms waiting for me–belonging to one who looks at my paranoia and rigidity and impatience and stays, somehow seeing more. Faith is believing that there is more than the quirks and the screaming. Faith provides the arms that keep love afloat.