A new friend recently asked me what I enjoy doing in my free time. An innocuous question that, five years ago, I would have happily answered. But 37-year-old Megan, with two kids, audibly laughed and thought, “What is free time?” Back in the day, free time meant cuddling up with a good book or getting my nails done on a whim. It meant not structuring my day around nap time, play dates, or the mid-afternoon meltdown. But not wanting to seem void of all personality, I took another stab at answering the question. “I love to browse Target with an iced coffee.” She looked at me as if I had three heads. “That’s your answer? If I had a free afternoon, that is the last thing I’d want to do,” she said. I made a mental note of her condescension and went about my day.
Ironically, that same afternoon, I went to the store with my four-year-old and one-year-old in tow. What was meant to be a quick trip turned into quite the spectacle. One child dumped an entire box of crayons on the floor (not the 8-pack; the 64-pack). The other was skipping alongside the cart when she tripped over her feet. Despite giving her both cuddles and kisses (this was a minor injury, folks), she screamed at the top of her lungs as if she’d lost an appendage. There is nothing more humbling than your child engaging in a full-blown public meltdown. By the time we got back to the car, I was on the verge of a mental breakdown.
After I put the kids to bed (my husband travels for work, and I was on my own that day), I poured a large glass of wine and started thinking again about my answer. Why did she judge me so hard for browsing Target in my free time? It’s not like I’m a captive to capitalism. I’m a captive to mom brain, and I need mine to shut off every now and then. And it just so happens it shuts down at Target. Sure—I’d love to truly embrace the self-care movement by booking a spa treatment or taking a friends trip—but that’s not always in the cards for parents. We take care of tiny humans, who, by nature, demand a lot from us. So, if I can escape to Target for an hour, I’m going to do it, and by God, I’m going to enjoy it.
I like to browse the home décor section and aimlessly wander up and down each aisle with my favorite Starbucks drink. I mentally redesign my home, complete with white couches and perfectly curated fall accents. I smell all the candles and flip through the pages of whatever books are currently on the New York Times Best Seller list. I browse the kid’s clothing section (which admittedly is my favorite part), and I people-watch. I give nods to frustrated parents chasing after their kids—an unnoticeable and yet kind gesture that only a parent would pick up on. But most importantly– I’m alone. The endless internal chatter dissipates. No one is screaming or asking questions. No one needs me. And for 45 minutes, I get to be Megan—not a mom, or a wife, or a lawyer—just me.
So, go to Target (or wherever you like), grab a coffee, and do your thing, Mama. No one is judging you. Well, no one important anyway.
