ABOUT ME

About me: My husband Chuck, our six-year-old Junior, our three-year-old Everette and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.

Friday, August 1, 2008

Behold the haggard housewife

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…

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?”)

3 comments:

SherryB said...

Oh, I do feel for you. I'm having a similar week (sans helpful comments from my mother, who blessedly lives five states away). My husband's been gone since Sunday; sadly, I can't blame a thing on him, however, since it's been for a good cause (work, which=money, which=yay). Not helping matters is that A, my 3-year-old, has been waking up progressively earlier each morning--today, it was 5:45. Clearly, I am being punished.

At any rate, I think we are twin souls because the first word that popped into my head when I stared at my reflection this morning was "haggard."

Hang in there. This week, too, shall pass. :)

Melissa said...

Yeah, this is going to be a rough week, but look at it this way: you have set an amazing precedent.

By being open to him doing his thing, he, if he knows what's good for him, will have to let you do yours on occasion. TAKE ADVANTAGE OF IT!!! In a month or so, feel free to ask for a "girl's weekend" to catch up with friends and stuff. He'll have no ground to say no.

Practically Joe said...

“Sure, honey! Have a blast, we’ll be fine”
Hmmmm ... well ... you did say that.