I remember the first time I felt it: the crazy-mom moment.
Orlando was a baby, maybe five or six months old, and I was walking up the stairs of our house with him in my arms, and I thought: “I’ll go crazy. I am going crazy.” I felt the shimmer of despair and desperation, like who am I, who is this kid, where are we, what I am doing here, I need someone, anyone, just another person, a bigger life, more space, more connection.
That crazy-mom moment. We all have them, though we choose to medicate them differently. Playgroup, anyone? Or maybe Prozac.
Hey, I’ve done my share of playgroups — and Omega-3s (the organic mood enhancer, thank you very much) — but I’m just saying that I’ve wanted something more. Something more structural, something outside of me that will help me live the way I want to on the inside.
And that’s where the co-housing thing comes in. I swear, I called Rom every day at work during my pregnancy with Mica: “This is so wrong, we’re not meant to do this alone. I can’t do this alone.”
I want to know the people who live near me. I want to live with people who are different ages/colors/cultures/abilities. I want to act like we’re connected because we are. I want to see children of all ages running around in a mob. I want to have adult interaction, shared responsibilities, intergenerational confabs. I want a tremendous garden, wildspace, porches that face each other. And then I want my very own house, where I can retreat and find the ever-revered and sought-after privacy (I am an American, after all).
So we’re on a journey to find out: http://growingavillage.blogspot.com.