Needless to say, I have been stressing these past few weeks. Okay, months. (Help me with this: on Friday Will will be 8 weeks old, but he's not technically two months old until the 21st. So is he two months old at 8 weeks? Or is it two months from the date he was born? How old is my kid, anyway?) Anyway, apparently I have moved from "charmingly crazy" to "batshit crazy". How crazy am I? Crazy enough that the leader of my mommy's group pulled me aside after class yesterday to hand me a list of local therapists.
Not that I've ever been big on self-censoring, but I guess when you start crying in the middle of a bunch of mommies over the fact that your baby refuses to sleep for more than 20 minutes during the day (45 minutes at night!) and you fear that your kid is going to have to sleep with you (or on you) for the rest of your life and now you completely understand why waking people up just as they're falling asleep is used as a method of torture in prison camps and you're starting to have some rather ungenerous thoughts about your little bundle of joy, perhaps it's time to seek professional help.
I'm not opposed to visiting a pro. What I am opposed to is the price of said pro. Our insurance doesn't cover any form of psychological help so we have to pay out of pocket, which is easier said than done when you're a single income family living in one of the most expensive cities in the nation. Still, I figured if we scrimped (and if the doctors offered a sliding scale) we could probably cough up around $150 a week. So I called the first therapist. And then I hung up. Her hourly rate?
An hour. (Excuse me. 50 minutes.)
Needless to say, I will be staying batshit a bit longer. And I am in the wrong line of work.