About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler 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.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
At least I can admit that I'm emotionally immature, juvenile and unsupportive. Subtitle: Chuck could have done better
Try as I might, I cannot stop fantasizing about Chuck being creamed by a Mack truck (I know, poor Chuck, you must think I am the wife from hell). But listen, I don’t want him to die. I just want him to stop having so much weekday fun with Junior.
Today—which was sunny and 80, with no humidity—he called me at work to say that he was on his way to meet his friend and wife at a park. They would be there playing tennis (does anyone work?). While they volleyed, Chuck would amuse Junior on the adjacent playground. Afterward, they would all get lunch. Then Chuck would be on his way home.
Even though I promised I would not make comments like “Must be nice, asshole,” and “I guess I’ll just keep on winning that bread” (because it’s emasculating and rude, I know), I couldn’t help myself. While Mrs. Mullet toiled away, Chuck was able to:
1) see friends
2) answer to no one but himself
3) play with Junior
4) breathe fresh—as opposed to recirculated—air
5) poop in the comfort of his home or in the anonymity of a public place (as opposed to a shared office bathroom)
6) be free from Corporate America
Even though I promised I’d do better, I’m right back to where I was before, which is not mature enough to handle this situation. I want to be, I swear. I try to be grateful every day for the fact that Chuck is a great dad and he’s doing a great job and we don't have to worry about daycare because that’s what the mature part of my brain tells me, but the comments slip out. The call to the Mack truck driver gets placed.
The thing is, I know I’m not alone. As of June 2009, the male unemployment rate was 10 percent, versus 7.6 percent for women. Some of those women must be jealous freakazoid moms like me.
Before working fathers get ruffled, I know you get jealous, too. CNN covered it, so it must be true. And I just got an email from a male friend who wrote, “Yesterday I had Michelle for a couple of hours while Jen went to the eye doctor. I got a good glimpse of what life at home is like during the day. Michelle, t-shirt, jeans, a walk around the hood, Moms, strollers, nowhere important to be, no rush to get there...I’m pretty sure we’re getting shafted on this deal.”
Now, I know that the grass is always greener. I know that the life of a stay-at-home parent isn’t glamorous or fun all the time. But to help us shaftees, could you please lie and tell us that every day was a day from hell? Could you not tell us when you go to the park? Could you pretend to be a little less in tune with the needs of our child?
And could you stand just a little closer to the center lane?
Kidding! Omigosh, I am so kidding! (Though after reading this, I may just volunteer myself as roadkill.)