Guilt trip that is. Why oh why do we procreate if not to ensure that every moment of every day of the rest of our long, tormented lives are packed full to the brim of shiny hot molten guilt? It’s miserable. We have these babies and we love them So. Goddamned. Much. and they bring us so much joy but along with the joy there’s a disclaimer; the fine print that nobody notices until AFTER the birth has already taken place: JOY TO THE WORLD YOUR CHILD HAS COME*
* Joy to be accompanied by lifelong grand-piano-full of guilt that you will carry around on your back crippling you more and more with every step. Enjoy.
When Jules was teeny tiny I felt guilty because “omg I put him down for a few minutes and he just sat there and stared at that wall and was soooo understimulated and is probably going to be a violent social misfit a la Charles Manson baaah” and then he got bigger and I started to expect more from myself (domestically speaking) and I started to get into “omg I left him alone while I ran downstairs to switch the laundry and he pulled himself up against the couch and fell back and bumped his head and probably has brain damage and will put his shoes on the wrong feet until the day he dies baaah” and then began The Era Of The Obsessive House Moving (story: bought a café in the city, moved in temporarily with relatives while we looked for a house, realized we couldn’t really afford to get back into the real estate market in the t-dot quite yet, decided to rent and save up some money. Endofstory) so one minute he’s living in his own house in the burbs, the next he’s living with nana, the next in a little apartment and then in the next year or so we’ll move AGAIN into a house (that I vow to stay in until they carry me out in a straight jacket… you sooo thought I was going to say “pine box” didn’t you? huh? didn’t you? but I have key insights into my own mind and don’t think I’ll make it that far before they lock me up) and anyway I’m plagued daily by the fact that Jules has been bumped from house to house and “omg are we f*cking him up from all the moving and he’ll have detachment commitment Oedipal abandonment Freudian sociopathic issues from now until eternity baaah”. AND more recently when I was at home with him (until I started working in this godforsaken place 2 mnths ago) (oops! Pay day. I love you new job. Pay me please!) I was always “omg is he watching too much tv we should totally go outside oops I just lost him in that snowbank did he eat the yellow snow are his toes going black and falling off from frostbite maybe we should go back inside is he watching too much tv baaah” AND NOW I’m at work and he’s at home with John. They have a great time together and they get to do all this male bonding BUT I know he misses me and tonight I have deigned to make plans to go out straight from work and NOT be home to eat dinner & put Jules to bed for the first time since I went back to work (what were you thinking? A social engagement? For no good reason than because you wanted to? You’re the worst mother ev-ah!) and then Sunday morning I’ve agreed to do some volunteer work so I won’t be around (tsk tsk tsk. Soooo selfish) and next week I’m having dinner with friends one night and AGAIN won’t be home for dinner/bed (*gasp* one social engagement was one thing but two? TWO? Can someone please get me the number for child services?) and next Friday is John’s and my 5th wedding anniversary so I’ve arranged for him to go to my mom’s for the evening and stay OVERNIGHT and that is a huge, huge thing for me, Internet. I’ve only spent one night away from him since birth – that’s one night in 2-1/2 years. So tally it up and that’s two evenings, a morning and an overnight and it’s just bad timing that all these things have fallen within a one-week-span and I feel like I already never get to see Jules cuz I’m here at work and “omg I’m the one thing that’s been constant through all the moving and snowbanks and head-bumping and wall-staring and now I’m going out for dinner and what if he thinks I don’t love him anymore and while running upstairs when I get home to hug him and reassure him that ‘mama loves ya babeee’ I slip on a dinky car and fall against the gas stove and eff up some gas leaky pilot lighty mechanism and we all die in a blazing inferno baaah”
Crazy much? You’re starting to understand the whole ‘straight-jacket’ thing now, yes?