This morning, when my mother arrived bright and bushy tailed to watch Junior for the day, she took one look at me and said, “Today you look like a tired working mother.”
Then she saw Charles’ medieval tunics on the couch (which is where he puts his dirty laundry, slovenly creature that he is) and said, “That Charles! I think it’s just great he has such a flair for adventure.” (If you didn’t already know, Charles is about to travel back in time to partake in a freak convention known as Pennsic.)
Hmmm. Let’s break this down, shall we?
It appears that:
a) I am haggard and a cliché
b) my husband has a real zest for life.
Now why the hell would that be? Could Charles’ colorful persona be attributed to the fact that he is about to embark on a weeklong excursion consisting of complete and utter debauchery? That for seven days he will be free to rise when he wants (or not rise at all), drink and be merry, and not be responsible for the ever-demanding bundle of joy that, up until now, we have co-parented?
And poor moi! Destined to spend my week as Junior’s solitary caregiver, dragging my stiff, aching bones from house to office, feeding and dressing Junior in a zombie daze, calling out for assistance—help, someone!—only to realize that my weakened vocal chords—and they will be weakened because I sing to Junior every chance I get, I’m that dedicated—are so fatigued I might as well be a mouse whispering into a wind tunnel.
Add to that the fact that our house was broken into one month ago and that even with the Fort Knox conditions—thank you Brink's—I still have a panic attack when I hear a strange noise. Fine, most often the noise is our hefty kitties trying to hoist their bellies off the floor as they climb over Junior’s toy collection but still…
If my mother weren’t such a loving caregiver—and a free one at that—I would have opened up a can of whoop ass on her.
I know she means well. I know my anger is more justifiably directed at Charles, who is leaving me to run the house, Junior, and myself (ragged).
But ultimately, yes, I am angry at myself for saying, “Sure, honey! Have a blast, we’ll be fine” when Charles asked if he could go in the first place.
If Linda thought I looked like a tired working mother today just wait until she sees me next week. (Is anyone else having flashbacks to Donna Summer's “She Works Hard For The Money?”)
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