it’s no wonder fifties housewives were known for dropping “mother’s little helpers,” or was that the sixties? Anyway, being in the house for a long time absolutely drives me batty. I am a conflicted woman. I love being with my daughter. I’m only working part time (some months I work more than others–it is dependent on many factors. This coming month is going to be very busy), and I love being with her and wouldn’t want to work f/t just to come home with zilch after paying for daycare…nor would I want to miss out on the majority of the tiny years.
That said, there are some days when the monotony of being “mostly” at home drives me batty.
How much excitement can there be in a day where you are worrying about how the damn turkey meatballs will turn out? I mean, is this my life? I wish someone else could do the cooking and cleaning, and all I had to do was teach and play with my daughter–and clean/care for her. Like large dinners and lunches just fall from the sky while I spend hours playing with her and throwing meatballs at each other.
Okay, maybe not that exactly.
I feel like my brain is on an autopilot function of: Daughter’s poop: hard or soft, hard or soft, daughter’s food, daughter’s food, nurse, nurse, play, inspire, play inspire, am I doing this right? Am I doing enough? Did I do it right?
More poop.More boob. God, I feel like a food-milk factory.
It is enough to make one miss her days of standing in front of a stage telling my dark, but incredibly cathartic and actually very funny rape joke. (Hey, I went through it, and have to deal with it somehow. I chose comedy.)
I miss using my brain in ways I used to. I used to have a brain filled with french verbs, essays,movies, and bad pick-up lines (not to use, but ones folks used on me.)
I now have this auto soundtrack that goes like this:
“9 cookies sitting on a plate, cookie monster eats one….and now there’s 8! 8 cookies when there used to be 10, wishing me could have 10 cookies again.”
the more we get together, together, together….if you’re happy and you know it, shoot yourself.
Okay, the last verse I made up. 🙂 I love being around kids, especially mine. I love playing with her, and being the person who really shapes her while she is still so young, but is it wrong of me to want some more intellectual challenges? I feel like if I could teach another class, that would be the perfect balance for me.
I know there will be plenty of years as she gets older when she will want nothing to do with me…when she’ll think I am satan herself, but I’m just afraid I will forget everything by the time she is ready to disown me for a few years, and that I’ll walk around like a bumbling fool saying, “bah bah bah,” because I will have forgotten everything except for what elmo’s voice sounds like.
What is worse is I feel guilty for wanting to have my life exactly as it is, except for with more of my old life mixed in.