As Tracy Jordan of “30 Rock” would say, I have a lot on my mind grapes tonight.
I gave Odie the night off. After the second or third text from his “boys” that had him giggling like a schoolgirl, I finally told him to just “GO PLAY WITH YOUR FRIENDS!” Actually, I’d told him that about two hours earlier, but he hemmed and hawed for a while before finally leaving.
For a long time, I have felt hurt and lonely when my husband (or boyfriend or fiance, depending on the phase of our relationship) wanted to go be with his friends. Now, I just don’t give a shit anymore. The part of me that used to be sad that he would rather be with them than me is done feeling sorry for itself. Exhausted working/nursing mom at the end of her week cannot compete in the fun department with bachelor, childless men-children and their seductive texts.
When I was in college, I applied for and got a job writing a weekly column for my school newspaper. One of my three submission pieces was about “Boy Time.” In it, I mocked clingy girlfriends and encouraged womankind to unleash their men to go be “boys.” Men, I claimed, needed time with other men to do stupid things like laugh at fart jokes. They also needed space to miss their girlfriends in order to better appreciate them. The piece was a very big hit (aside from getting me the job, it was also published). I got letters from girlfriends and boyfriends alike saying “THANK YOU!” It’s so typical that I would come full circle and become one of the pathetic girls I mocked so mercilessly.
So, I turned it around and took the advice of 23 year-old me. I told Odie to get the hell out of the house, don’t get a DUI, and I that didn’t care when (or if) he came home. Then I finished bathing Baby V, put her in jammies, played with her for half an hour, and nursed her to sleep. Now I’m sitting with a glass of wine, listening to my mind grapes.
I still have a bit of the cold I caught from my daughter who caught it from day care. I’m wondering how to handle the bruise in the shape of toddler teeth on my baby’s forearm. I need to say something to her day care teachers, but I don’t want to come off bitchy or defensive. I know they take great care of her. I also know that another kid bit mine and no one said anything to me. The possibility that they just didn’t KNOW is almost worse than them not telling me about it. My talkative 17 month old pointed to the bruise (no broken skin) and told me, “Alex bite!” So, not much of a mystery what went down or who is responsible. Still, I’m not truly mad. God knows tomorrow it could be MY kid biting people, and I’d want other mothers to be understanding.
I gave a few moments of thought to the latest hate comments/mail I received from loyal fans of the Floridian mommy blogger who delights in diminutive objects, and decided that I probably am pretty mean. My mother always told me so as a child. I don’t think that it’s the core of me. I have a dark, surly side, but I keep it pretty well medicated hidden. Plus, my posts that don’t talk shit don’t get read very much.
Where does all of this venom originate? Was I not among the opioid masses, sobbing tears of “Thank God it wasn’t me” over the famous birth story? Yes. I admit, I was an early disciple. I drank the Kool-Aid. Deep in my postpartum hormones, I, too, was “touched” by the birth tale. I think that my admiration was derailed around the time of the extravagant 3rd birthday party of the older child. Something that was discussed here, on this forum:
The people discussing the blog here are clearly “crafters.” I have no feelings one way or another for people who are crafty. My sister ShannieO makes beautiful jewelry, and I love being the recipient of it. I planned my wedding to Odie on a modest budget, out-of-state, and was caught off-guard when asked by more party-planner types than I, “What’s your theme?” “What are your colors?” and “What kind of flowers will you have?” Uhhh, we’re going to hike up a mountain, say our vows, hike down, go to the house, drink, eat, laugh, and then honeymoon. What’s that other shit you’re talking about? We eventually figured all of those things out, but in a very haphazard way. Several months before we got married, one of Odie’s college friends took the plunge first and his bride had the “Bride” thing DOWN. I had a wedding where people poured their own drinks, played Connect Four at their tables, and there wasn’t a monogrammed napkin in sight. I just don’t have that “planner gene.”
If people are into crafting and party planning, then whoopie fucking doo for them. As for the over-the-top toddler and child parties, I ask you to tune in to a show on MTV called “My Super Sweet Sixteen.” If you think that those girls demanding Bentleys and private Justin Timberlake concerts from their whipped parents are EXACTLY the kind of teens you want your kids to become, then by all means, keep treating their birthdays like state dinners with the Queen of England. I don’t have the money or the patience to deal with a super spoiled sixteen year old, so I’m going to keep my daughter’s expectations in the party department nice and low.
It makes me exhausted just thinking about it.
But everything has me exhausted tonight. This week saw me sick for two days, dealing with the aftermath of substitute teachers in my classroom, a visit from Mama Odie mid-week, my period, and car trouble. I’m so glad it’s Friday that I almost didn’t make it through the work day. If my classroom had been equipped with an emergency evacuation slide, I might have been in serious trouble.