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.)

The 2009 Freak Flag: softer colors, sublter hues but just as resilient

All the hype. All the build-up. Alas, my birthday (aka Date Night III) blew serious chunks.

On Saturday, Chuck and I dropped Junior off at my mother’s then had lunch at my favorite Indian restaurant. We even had a gift certificate from good ole Granny. But after stuffing ourselves full of Chicken Tikka Masala, garlic naan and a carafe of wine, we both looked like we were expecting.

The ensuing espressos and cloves were mere stupidity. As was the shot of Jack.

The rest of the afternoon consisted of me asking Chuck what he wanted to do and him telling me he didn’t care, it was my day.

My day. It sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? A whole day to do whatever the hell I wanted. But there was one problem. I didn’t know what the hell to do! Something was off. I couldn’t shake the blech. The blah. The macaroni brain. So Chuck did what every good husband does when his wife is behaving like a freakazoid: He took me to the outlets.

And that’s when I started behaving like a psychotic mother in a Lifetime movie. It was like every little kid had a marshmallow head, and I wanted to eat it. Was the little boy in front of us Junior’s age? What words was he saying? Would his parents mind if I held him and called him Junior? Could I please smell his hair and kiss his fat cheeks?

The evil voices in my brain started telling me that my mother had tricked me into thinking I’d like some alone time with my husband and to sleep late. She didn’t care about me. She just wanted Junior all to herself! She just wanted me to suffer!

Can you guess what happened next?

Why, yes, of course. Chuck smacked some sense into me, we went home, etc., etc., watched the entire first season of Weeds, had a birthday toast, etc., etc. and slept until 11:30 the next morning, around which time my mother brought my child back to me and my wonderful husband served me breakfast in bed.

All of this leads me to believe that actually being 34 is going to be fine. It was the damn metamorphosis bullshit that sucked balls*.

Wow, does anyone else see a Hallmark card somewhere in there?

*It could also be seasonal affective disorder (SAD) or my potassium levels or maybe, just maybe, I have become every obsessed mother I ever mocked.