The appreciation of an uninterrupted virus, the capacity to "drag myself" to the gym, deciding I don't feel like going grocery shopping and just surviving on plain couscous for one more day...certain things start to seem insignificant or irrelevant when you have unlimited time to spend thinking about them or doing them. When I had my first kid, my ability to engage in the little, personal things became less and less frequent. When Capt. Insano was born, attending to certain needs was no longer an option. Even in the shower I'm only good for 5 minutes unless I wait until 9 in the evening and quite frankly the night is my only time to breathe and do, without being hampered by other's needs. I've got a laundry list of stuff I want to do for myself and only a few, treasured hours to do them. Showering barely makes that list. If you have kids I assume you'll know exactly what it means to forsake the little things in an effort to be a "good parent". If you don't, here's a list of some of the most important little things I've foresaken in my life in an effort to be a "good parent".
1. Eating and digesting an entire meal by myself. I can't remember the last time I sat down with a plate of food that didn't have little hands coming at it from all angles. That tomato wasn't appealing all cut up on their dish, but for some reason mine looks irresistibly delicious. I'm considering stabbing at their digits with my heavy, adult sized fork, prison style, to send a clear message that mommy's food is mommy's food...but that would be wrong, right?This goes for drinks, too. My water is MY water. My decaf ice coffee is MY decaf ice coffee. Placing it on a table is not code for them to come and help themselves. Back off, grabby pants. Also, it frustrates the hell out of me when I ask the dynamic duo if they want a bowl of whatever it is I'm preparing to indulge in and they refuse it, but proceed with a two fisted aerial assault on whatever it is they just turned down; chips, grapes, crackers...Maybe next time I'll put my food down my pants or spit in it first. Chow down, cherubs.
2. The time consuming practice of femininity.Shaving my legs, applying mascara, plucking my eyebrows and chin whiskers, blow-drying my hair, trimming the shrubbery shrouding my special lady island and any other general maintenance that helps me look and feel like a human being and not like something you see in a blurry photo on a paranormal website. I used to file this kind of activity under "D" for Drudgery. Now I just wish I could get more than 10 minutes in the shower to make sure I've scrubbed everything properly. I've resigned myself to the fact that I'll probably resemble a Yeti for the next couple of years.
3. Sexual healing. Being able to enjoy sex. This is a huge one. I've been given the ole' lock the door advice and while that seems well and good, there's the part of my brain that's been taken hostage by my children that keeps telling me its not allowable. "What if they're sick and they need you?" It asks. "What if there's an emergency and you can't hear them dying or choking or screaming, because you're too busy fulfilling you're own selfish, primal needs?" It questions condescendingly. And then my climax is interrupted by what I think is the sound of children crying but is actually the sound of mine and my husband's intimacy creaking to a standstill. I'm close to jamming a knitting needle through my nostril cavities to lobotomize the invaded portion of my brain. Funny story (I...guess?). There was one time we did lock the door and when we were done doing the dirty, we opened it back up only to find our precious daughter standing at our feet, shell shocked, teary eyed and loudly sucking on her binky. We were thankful we were fully clothed and realized that a locked door doesn't mean shit to a child in the throes of teething pain. Also lying in our bed of sin with her was incredibly, mentally uncomfortable. (See also: Hearing noisy toys go off while attempting to turn each other on, because nothing makes me hotter than hearing Sir Topham Hat's disembodied voice telling me I'm "a very useful engine.")
4.Quiet time in my office. I'm just going to say it: I miss taking a dump by myself; whether its being able to catch up on my reading, sending out texts telling people I'm texting them on the toilet or just marveling in the stench and size of what I've created, I prefer to do it alone. And by alone, I mean without hearing constant knocking or talking outside the door which aside from being awkward is really distracting. Also, I pray that the next time I have diarrhea, I won't have to deal with it in front of two little people who, thankfully are respectful enough not to comment on the noise and smell as they read, play in the sink and exterminate a little bit more of my dignity and modesty. On a slightly different note in the same vein, my son's bathroom activity seems to revolve around mine as of late, so there will never be a time I won't feel rushed, because my son is screaming "Mommy, are you almost done, I have to go real bad!"
5. Brushing my teeth and other hygiene. We've all been there. Hustling to get the bag packed with all the unnecessaries that we're positive will be necessary. Herding the children into a corner and forcing clothing over their wriggling bodies. Changing that last minute crap diaper that I couldn't smell until I almost had the door closed. Realizing as I'm halfway to the playground that I didn't brush my teeth, change my tampon or apply deodorant that morning, meaning interaction with other people may have to be done from several feet away. I was going to include these with item 2, but there's a big difference between looking appalling and smelling appalling, and I've been a member in both clubs.
6. Fuck you and the swear jar you rode in on. Last but not least, I miss being able to swear. Really swear. Filth used to be an art form in our house. It was a competition to see who could fit more vulgarity into a single, coherent conversation. Now it's just one more thing my children feel they can reprimand me for. When we're in public my son tells me I need to put money in the swear jar. What fucking swear jar? I never authorized a swear jar. Honestly, any money I put in the swear jar is going right to DD's anyway, so the next time I swear, instead of telling me I need to put money in this imaginary swear jar that will never come to fruition if I can help it, I should be instructed to go get a coffee. "Oops, Mommy called that guy a shit face ass munch. Guess I'll have to swing around the Drive Thru and pay my penance."
In closing, let me say that I love my kids. Some days I just need a reminder because parenthood isn't aways ideal, I'm not perfect and neither are they.
