I’ve very nearly gotten through 4 weeks back at the office. I have to tell you, it’s nice. Work is where I get to be sort of alone and recharge. Work is where I get to eat food with 2 hands and utensils and even chew it. Work is where I get to go to the bathroom sort of alone. Work is where I get to steal a few moments here and there to read a book or blog. I love going to work on my 3 days a week. And I feel pretty shitty about that.
I guess it’s like survivor’s guilt. I know that when I’m here, someone else is there with my children. I adore my children. But they wear me out. I’m not talking about the “Felix was up every 2 hours last night to nurse” thing (which he was last night). I’m talking about when Stella is demanding a video or her markers while Felix has just made some alarming noises indicating that he’s probably violently crapped himself and Stella has left the fridge open and wandered away. I’m talking about the times when Stella is in the bathtub in order to remove the snotcicles from her hair while Felix gets angry in his crib because he can’t be trusted not to scoot off the couch anymore – and the living room is where his favorite ceiling fan lives, don’t ya know – and I’m dashing back and forth between the 2 so that she doesn’t drown or get a rubber duck lodged in the drain and he doesn’t get a foot stuck in the slats.
It’s not exciting. It’s quite boring. Trying to describe a typical day to anyone who is not a parent is like reading aloud from a toaster’s owner’s manual – dry and bland, like plain toast. Will suffers more than I do, I know. He just cannot sit and not do something. If he’s home, why not try to sort out the junk drawer? Why not clean the fridge? Because once you try to do something – anything – you open that door to the place where you get so stupidly frustrated at the kids who are being kids and won’t let you just get one measly thing done. Ok. Relax. Take a breath.
Yesterday was a rough one. Both kids have had some kind of mild cold/allergy funk. Stella has had it worse. After a day’s remission, the mucous was back with a vengeance. Snot bubbled forth from her nose like the water in a hookah pipe. I don’t want cappuccino again anytime soon. The weather was bad, so even if I could have bifurcated myself, regrown a copy, and taken her outside, I wouldn’t have been able to. So we watched a lot of videos – videos that I’ve seen at this point at least 967 times each. It’s sad that I know what volume of Baby Babble she’s talking about when she says “Sit! Sit down!” I can also name that Baby Einstein by her saying “Wheee! Whack!” As if the viewing redundancy wasn’t bad enough, you must play along. Videos demand audience participation. It’s like the Rocky Horror Picture Show without the lingerie and flying toast. By god, yes, Stella. That IS a green tractor. Every time. But the poor thing was shut in and bored. What else do you do?
This is all pretty typical, I suppose. Even Brangelina have constant racket and chaos, I’m sure. They just have more space, hired help, and look much better doing it. I will say this: Will and I exist like single parents during the week. We have next to no overlap in our time at home with children. That sucks. Not only does it make it damn near impossible to get things done around the house, but it seriously minimizes our time together and with the kids. Maybe I should petition a plastic surgeon to suck some fat out of my butt and implant it into my lips. Then I, too, can be glamorous enough to earn money for hired help.