Wednesday, November 14, 2007

The Parent trap

Sometimes I feel that my days as an ardent feminist are behind me. I hope a bit that I remain a feminist even with the edges worn down. I cop to the great mommy stereotype all martyred up and resentful for it and well let's be frank. I just want to kill myself.

It is the real parent trap. I mean I can be fair.. I know there are dad's out there in the same boat. I just can't really speak for them.

A long morning this morning for me. A choir at my lonely ear a lyric chorus... I suck. I suck. I suck. A day where I "secretly" contemplate the relief of returning to work. I cast myself as 'least valuable player' in the family team and a day where a few too many feelings of my own seep out in front of my children.

I did the work from 5:30 this morning but I sure didn't like it those first three hours. I handed out coffee first. I put out all the fresh food req'd and the kids were smiling after two short nights. Where I was tired was the constant stream of instruction that their father seems to need. Get them forks. He's in the Saran wrap again! Every chirp less chirpy and every time less welcome.

A ticking timebomb to dischord. Then it comes... From him: "You're saying I'm just the worst parent, ever." What when did I say that? And, what? You? You mean me, right? It's the nuclear weapon.




It began at 5:30 am with my early rising little guy. A passable night for two nearly over-it little sick kids. A late night for them since Mommy was solo on bedtime duties and ran overtime. I stuck it out myself in the blur for an hour. That's a bit past my husband's alarm clock call to get to work.

I'll get to the coffee and make the breakfast choices. Oh yes and the diaharrea in the diaper; that's my department, too. I work it. Was glad to find that pigeon feature on CNN to help me out at bit. I do all that and only when my son's eagerness for Daddy beckons do I help him upstairs and past the gate coffee cup in hand. Please come down I ask.

We endeavor breakfast for the fussbudgets. I of course will spend my breakfast time on my feet prepping constituent courses. Waffles and applesauce. Don't forget the beverages! And chop up that pineapple they need some fresh fruit. I am working hard. Grin pasted firmly in place but the burrs are there. My dear child drifts in to unroll all the foil and experiment with the metal tear edge on the saran wrap box. Hello, papa-man? What are you doing? ... Checking tennis scores??? You have got to be kidding me! I am asked to 'not be ridiculous'. I am informed that I have a propensity to 'fly off the handle'... It sucks. And blows... Or at least I blow. I am repaid for the sleep-in with this?

Blah-dee.. blah-dee.. you don't understand he crows and then this... "And,



With my apologies for advertising for Saran Wrap.


I'm impossible it seems.

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