You Know, Samantha Was A Witch

Monday I woke up vile and poisonous. I didn’t want to get out of bed; I didn’t want to hear any yelling or running in the hallway. I didn’t want to give anyone breakfast, except myself, and then I wanted absolute quiet while I ate it. I didn’t want anyone standing on my feet as I did the breakfast dishes, or throwing Tupperware behind me. I didn’t want anyone rooting through my purse, finding some half-eaten Goldfish (which were not mine in the first place) and spreading the crumbs like a new carpet through the living room. I didn’t want anyone smashing our bedroom fan. I didn’t want anyone searching in the kitchen garbage for an applesauce container that had already been in there two days, and licking it. I didn’t want to hear even one second of Elmo’s high-pitched fake laugh. I didn’t want anyone keeping me company in the bathroom. I didn’t want anyone pulling down my underwear after I’d just taken the trouble to pull them up. I didn’t want anyone jamming their fingers in my mouth when I picked them up. I didn’t want to pick anyone up, period, and I certainly didn’t want to listen to anyone scream if I didn’t. I didn’t want to carry bags of poop to the outside garbage. I didn’t want to chase anyone into the street screaming “Nooooo!” while they laughed and laughed. I didn’t want to buckle anyone into anything, particularly while they struggled. I didn’t want to haul anything weighing 18 pounds out of my trunk and fill it with crap that I would then wheel around.

What I wanted was to stay in my pajamas for a really long time, hearing nothing but the birds and the tea kettle, and read all the newspapers stacked behind the kitchen table. I wanted to watch my shows that have stacked up on Tivo. I wanted to go to the gym and zone out on bad morning talk shows from the elliptical machine. I wanted to go shopping and linger before making up my mind. I wanted to drink a cup of coffee in a public place, with a book. I wanted to call a friend and have a long, dishy chat. I wanted to meet someone for lunch and eat something complicated like salad really, really slowly, and drink two glasses of iced tea. I wanted to hear an entire story. I wanted to tell an entire story, complete with hand gestures and dramatic pauses.

I probably sound ungrateful to you. I may even sound like I have no business being a mother, particularly one who had to work as friggin’ hard to become one as I did. I don’t know what to do about it if that’s how I sound. Some days I just feel overwhelmed by the boredom, the repetition, the drudgery. Yes, there is drudgery; I don’t know how else to put it. Some days it takes me an hour to move 10 bites of food from a plate to a very small mouth. I spend an inordinate amount of time smelling someone’s bum. I do not have any family helping me; I do not have a regular babysitter; my husband works a 45-minute drive from our house.

It’s very confusing that this ennui settles either over or under my growing feelings of love for my daughter, depending on the day. I can’t imagine her being more perfect for us. She is gorgeous, smart, talented, fearless, fun, saucy, and a great dancer. I couldn’t ask for more, truly.

Monday I woke up vile and poisonous. I fretted my way through the steps of morning; the bottling, the breakfasting, the cleaning, the changing, the dressing, the diaper-bag packing, the car-loading, the frantic pulling of myself together. I fretted my way from home to the science museum, where I fretted Jarrah into the stroller and on to the lobby, where I met Lisa and Anton. When I saw Lisa, I fretted to her, too; what a relief it was to say, out loud, “I’m so depressed this morning. I am just not in the mood for any of this.” Lisa is a wonderful listener, and never seems to judge me for my awful thoughts. We made our way up to Kid City, where we turned the kids loose. I continued my fretting, really warming to the topic. Lisa nodded sympathetically, lord love her. Finally I was able to tear myself away from my fretting to look for Jarrah. She was sitting on the rug in the “library corner,” holding a book about a spotted dog, pointing at a picture of grass and babbling to herself with great delight. I knelt down beside her. “Grass!” I said softly. “That’s grass. You like grass. You didn’t used to, but you do now.” She looked up at me, pointed back at the grass, and said something else that I didn’t understand, but was probably about grass.

I looked at Lisa. “And then they have to go and be all adorable when you least expect it.”

“I know,” Lisa agreed.

Making it really hard to stay focused on my fretting.