Nina Restieri - Overcoming the Mom-Life Crisis: Ditch the Guilt, Put Yourself on the To-Do List, and Create A Life You Love

Advance Praise for
Overcoming the Mom-Life Crisis

This book is perfect for women who feel overwhelmed and stressed out by the demands of parenting and modern life. It is a simple, step-by-step guide for prioritizing real self-care while continuing to care for kids and all of the other responsibilities. It is a blueprint to cultivate inner peace and happiness, which is a win/win for e veryone!

Terri Cole, Psychotherapist, Founder of Terri Coles Real Love Revolution TM & Terri Coles Boundary Bootcamp TM

A POST HILL PRESS BOOK

ISBN: 978-1-6 4293-721-3

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-6 4293-722-0

Overcoming the Mom-Li fe Crisis:

Ditch the Guilt, Put Yourself on the To-Do List, and Create A Lif e You Love

2021 by Nin a Restieri

All Right s Reserved

Cover design by Heat her Harris

Although every effort has been made to ensure that the personal and professional advice present within this book is useful and appropriate, the author and publisher do not assume and hereby disclaim any liability to any person, business, or organization choosing to employ the guidance offered in this book.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

Post Hill Press

New York Nashville

posthil lpress.com

Published in the United States of America

To Andrew, Jenna, Matthew, and Jamie:

you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.

E. E . Cummings

Table of Contents

T his story is factually accurate to the best of my recollection. Still, at times, Ive changed a name, or a situation, or been intentionally vague. Some characters in this book are composites of a few differe nt people.

I have tried to give credit where credit is due with the Resources section in the back of this book, doing my best not to inadvertently repeat an idea Id heard or read elsewhere. To the best of my knowledge, what youre about to read is material gleaned from my own experience unless stated otherwise.

In the interest of keeping things simple, Ive chosen to use terms like mom, dad, she, and he , but I wrote this book for everyone who feels overwhelmed by the demands of parenting, regardless of gender identity.

If you dont like the road youre walking, start paving an other one.

Do lly Parton

I huddled under the covers in my king-size bed, sniffling into a wadded tissue from the nightstand. I pulled the sheet all the way up so it covered my face. In the darkness of my bedroom so close to midnight, I tried not to make a sound so as not to wake the kids. The house trembled for a moment when the garage door opened and then closed downstairs; then I heard the dull, familiar thud of Larrys footsteps as he walked to the fridge to find h is dinner.

Dont cry. Dont cry. Dont cry. Youre a strong, powerful woman, always in control. I hoped that if I repeated this enough, eventually Id start to b elieve it.

It had been an unremarkable day in my life. It was 2009 and like every day before that, as a mom of four young children, Id done all the things I was supposed to do. Poured the Frosted Flakes into bowls and added the milk. Wiped up the dribbles and splashes that got all over the table. Lined up the bowls, plates, and cups in the dishwasher. I pushed the kids sneakers onto their feet. Slid their backpacks over their arms. Held their hands to help them climb into the waiting minivan. I dropped them off with hugs and kisses at their four different schools in four different parts of town. I sat bundled up on the sideline at soccer practice, rushed into the grocery store to pick up a chicken to roast, got it into the oven just in time to start homework. Then baths and stories, snuggles and goodnig ht kisses.

I was proud of my momming. I gave the kids everything I had. Every. Si ngle. Day.

As I heard Larry enter the room, I prayed hed believe I was asleep and that no one would wake up asking for a glass of water or, worse, another story. I had nothing, absolutely nothing, left to give. This had become an increasingly regular feelingbeing depleted simply by the d ay-to-day.

On some level, I was angry with myself for feeling that way. Who was I to feel sorry for myself? What nerve did I have? I was lucky , married for almost fifteen years to a kind, loving man, living in our beautiful home, with healthy kids. I knew better than to be ungrateful. Andrew, Jenna, Matthew, and Jamie were my world. Larrys income more than supported us, and I had the freedom to start my own business and build it at my pace, which I had done a few years earlier. Everyone was happy and well-adjusted. On the surface, everything about my suburban life was the stuff of those enviable family scenes I had watched so often in rom- com films.

So why was I hiding under the covers? Why the uncontrollable, daily tears? Why did I frequently find myself locked in my room, or driving in my car with my heart palpitating, or sitting on the couch with my kids, heart racing, unable to take a full, de ep breath?

What was wrong with me? Its not like I was in a war zone. I was a stay-at-home mom in suburban Connecticut. How hard coul d that be?

Despite all the good in my life, I frequently found myself on the verge of collapse. My mind raced with unfounded, irrational fears, especially late at night. Publicly and on paper, I was a great mom, a loving wife, an overachieving mom entrepreneur. Behind that mask Id become a high-functioning mess, perpetually overwhelmed, sad, an d anxious.

Epiphany by a Thousand Needles

Knowing I needed help with my mounting anxiety in the face of simple day-to-day tasks, I took the first baby step on what would become a years-long quest for inner peace. I eventually sought out many different remedies, modalities, and healers. Jacques, an acupuncturist and Chinese medicine doctor, was the first.

Acupuncture seemed like an easy way to reduce what I thought was standard mom overwhelm. My plan was to lie on the table and be fixedthats how I thought it worked. I didnt anticipate having to put any emotiona l honesty into ac upuncture.

I didnt know whom I expected to meet the first time I walked into my acupuncturists clinic, but it definitely wasnt Jacques. He strode into the treatment room wearing khakis, horned-rim glasses, and a Vineyard Vines button downthe Dude uniform of suburban Connecticutlooking like someone I could have gone to college with. I went to Colgate University, a small, liberal-arts bastion of preppy style. As it turned out, he went there too, though hed graduated a few years before me. Despite looking like hed just come from a business-casual lunch at the country club, Jacques was a practicing Buddhist a nd healer.

It was a strangely stark room, sparsely furnished with a couple of folding chairs and a table. He placed a plastic office chair in front of me and looked into my eyes. His eyes were brown, surrounded by soft crinkles. Though hed just entered the room only a moment before, he was totally ther e with me.

He reached out for my hand, closed his eyes, and felt my pulse. First one hand, then the other. Then he opened his eyes and asked if he could look at my tongue.

As I stuck out my tongue, he took a look and started shaking his head. Youre totally overwhelmed, he said. Overwhelmed and sad.