Where's my bonus?
I find that at this particular moment very worst part of being a parent is, surprisingly, the lack of performance indicators.
The rudderless drone of activity my life represents is relentlessly taxing. I bristle at every demand from outsiders for me to do a little something more because to do so seems to imply in my internal dialogue their presumption that I am not busy.
Why can I not demonstrate the free timelessness of it all?
Will I prove my worth or success with potty training?
I have no credible measure of my ability to achieve nutritional goals?
When will I be sure my discipline and development expectations are in order?
Please someone, a performance review. It would nice for someone to care enough; but not too much.
I know it is not just me. I critique all those chronicled moments of babyhood. I recognize among bloggers the rudiments of a dissertation filled with welcome skepticism of the milestone of babyhood as a weapon that undermines the value of actual parenting. The burr of unrecognized performance indicators borne of a disdain for their pointless substitutes.
My hates list for the moment, said pointless substitutes:
Growth charts
Sleep theory books
Preschool, Public school, private school, home school
Nanny, v. Daycare v. At home parent
Minivans
Bus passes and/or bike seats and/or with versus bike trailers
Birth order
Arranging my life through email, usually more than 6 emails at a time
Bullying at the playground
Learning to talk
... do you know what I mean?
Maybe don't mind me? I am sick as a dog. My nanny a no show. I still have no kitchen. My van* is in the shop. The naps are freakishly challenging. The drywall with be sanded today -- what is the point in vacuuming.. hack wheeze.
Where's my bonus?
* In the spirit of reciprocity? soul-matedness? or enabling? I hit the van last week. Doesn't p-man feel a whole lot better?
The rudderless drone of activity my life represents is relentlessly taxing. I bristle at every demand from outsiders for me to do a little something more because to do so seems to imply in my internal dialogue their presumption that I am not busy.
Why can I not demonstrate the free timelessness of it all?
Will I prove my worth or success with potty training?
I have no credible measure of my ability to achieve nutritional goals?
When will I be sure my discipline and development expectations are in order?
Please someone, a performance review. It would nice for someone to care enough; but not too much.
I know it is not just me. I critique all those chronicled moments of babyhood. I recognize among bloggers the rudiments of a dissertation filled with welcome skepticism of the milestone of babyhood as a weapon that undermines the value of actual parenting. The burr of unrecognized performance indicators borne of a disdain for their pointless substitutes.
My hates list for the moment, said pointless substitutes:
Growth charts
Sleep theory books
Preschool, Public school, private school, home school
Nanny, v. Daycare v. At home parent
Minivans
Bus passes and/or bike seats and/or with versus bike trailers
Birth order
Arranging my life through email, usually more than 6 emails at a time
Bullying at the playground
Learning to talk
... do you know what I mean?
Maybe don't mind me? I am sick as a dog. My nanny a no show. I still have no kitchen. My van* is in the shop. The naps are freakishly challenging. The drywall with be sanded today -- what is the point in vacuuming.. hack wheeze.
Where's my bonus?
* In the spirit of reciprocity? soul-matedness? or enabling? I hit the van last week. Doesn't p-man feel a whole lot better?
Labels: baby junk, champagne problems?, Macro-Parenting, social crapola
posted by mo-wo at 2:27 p.m.
2 Comments:
I don't know if I could stomach a performance review. Here's what it would likely say: protective, excellent at showing affection, always willing to read, prone to fits of pique, too much of a complainer. Erg, no I think I will pass on the performance review.
God I fear performance reviews at work where I know what I am doing... At home, at sea, I'd be drowning, not waving in the face of one.
and drywall sanding is enough to make you cranky without the other aggravation. Poor you. We are feeling very indulgent because having sold the other house, we have decided to have someone else do the drywall this time! What luxury!
As to your floor, that's something I've never done, so I haven't much to offer you there, sorry.
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