Chronic underachiever

OK. I know it’s a library book. But I’ve already dog-eared seven crucial pages in Perfect Madness and I’m only on chapter two.

I have so much to say about it already but it’s very late and I’m very tired because, well, you know. My toddler woke me up at 6:45 a.m. and like a good mother I had to retrieve him immediately, lest he cry and feel sad. And then I spent an hour trying to find him something he would deign to eat for breakfast, and then I had to rack my brain to pack him a varied and high-fat yet nutritious lunch, because he is now at the 25th percentile for weight rather than the 50th and that just will not do. And then I took a shower, during which the phone rang AND the test of the emergency broadcast system came on the TV I left on to occupy Owen, causing me to A. be reminded that only bad mothers use TV as a babysitter and B. think that we were in the midst of another attack on America and maybe that was Iain calling to say the town had exploded and here I am, shaving my legs like a sucker. After that I entertained Owen while getting myself dressed (no easy feat, I assure you) and poured my second cup of coffee, which was going to have to stand in for breakfast again (too busy to eat! no time!). I packed up his bag for school and my bag for work and found shoes for the both of us and locked up all the doors and turned off all the lights and swayed, laden, out to the car.

Fortunately WTMD was playing that new Paul Simon song, “Outrageous,” because it cheered me up.

Then it was off to daycare to drop the little muffin off in a room of screaming babies, trying to explain to one of his teachers that if he continues to make lewd tongue motions at her it’s not because he’s been watching too much of the WB, it’s because that is the sign for “frog,” and he is very very smart. Also, he can say “cheese,” only it sounds like “sheeez.”

Then zippity-doo to the parking garage to find a spot; walk two blocks to the office; catch up on e-mail, have a planning meeting, do my day’s worth of work, and drive home to be on time for dinner at 6, which I cooked, because Iain was very tired. He cleaned up and I dressed Owen for bed and found his favorite book about pooping called Everyone Poops, which, it’s true, everyone does. Stories and cuddles and plop him into bed, standing over his crib, holding his hand so his little baby feelings aren’t hurt if I let him go. But my leg starts to hurt and the crib rail is pinching a nerve on my arm so I let go anyway, off to the armchair, to put in a few quality hours of freelance web design, before the night totally gets away from me.

Then, yawning, at 10, I brush my teeth and get in bed with “Perfect Madness” and realize, Holy Fucking Living Jesus, you mean there’s an easier way? I thought I WAS doing it the easy way!

One big fat reason why we’re moving to Pittsburgh: In-laws. Family in town. Some sort of motherfucking support system. Because if Iain goes down? If the day care is closed? If Owen, God forbid, gets sick on a work day? I am fucked. Eff you see kay fucked.

Not only is that just not right, but dammit, a girl likes to take a nap every once in a while, maybe read her book while the sun is still shining, you know?

April 28, 2006 | Filed Under motherhood, neuroses

Comments

2 Responses to “Chronic underachiever”

Malnurtured Snay on April 29th, 2006 9:02 am

You’re moving? Since when?
supa on April 29th, 2006 11:34 am

Since I decided I want to. We’re not leaving for at least a year, so, you know. But it’s definitely on the radar now.

Much as I love B-more — and I do — I want to live closer to our families and friends. That whole “it takes a village” thing. Because my “village” as it stands now is full of senile geriatrics who, while utterly charming, are not exactly dependable for, uh, anything other than gardening advice.

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