If my life were a novel…
the title would be called I Am So Not Cut Out for This and it would be filed in that section with all the truth-is-weirder/funnier/more entertaining-than-fiction female-interest novels get filed, the ones where protagonists agonize over gaining or losing 5 lbs, getting a date for the weekend, and how they’re going to become self-assured and fabulous.
But my magnum opus would be about the three weeks I’m currently in, where Sami is on school break and I am spending all day, every day keeping her entertained, running out all her energy, geting her to the potty like clockwork, and wrangling/bribing/negotiating her into a nap(-like situation) every day.
Suddenly, weekends *actually* have absolutely no meaning, as opposed to back when school was in session, when the days didn’t all blend endlessly one into another.
Suddenly, I’m awash with an entirely different set of reflections than the usual. Now I’m thinking about how it seems like most mothers, presented with an “opportunity” to spend three whole weeks with their child, might be surrounded by happy feelings. While at any given moment I absolutely love Sami, at any given moment I am also feeling one of a handful of feelings that are definitely not love. How about frustration, boredom, anger, exhaustion… just to name a few.
I guess it’s normal to feel this way when days really do start bleeding into each other at the edges. I fall into bed a lump of worn out caregiver, read for a little while until I fall into a restless, dreamless sleep, and start it all over way too early when Sami jumps on me in the morning and whisper-yelling, “ARE YOU AWAKE?”
They don’t make baby gates tall enough to stop her from climbing out, and even if they did, she’d just stand at the gate and yell, “Moooooommmmmmeeeeeeeeeeee,” over and over until I came to let her out.
While I’m not on the playground getting Sami good and tired, the intricate process of determining what she wants to eat and making it, dealing with pile after endless pile of laundry and washing the infinite supply of dishes we somehow burn through… then I have a few practical committments I’ve made with my time, and then the nagging question of what do I want to do next and how am I going to do it always hovering over my head. (Hmm, why would I be worn out?)
I think I have all the critical elements of a pretty good first-person-self-effacing truth-is-humor novel/memoir right here.