I was made for Frolicking

It’s total bullshit how little frolicking I get to do.
I was made for frolicking.

I mean… right?

I am writing this with music (Marsheaux) playing in one ear. The other ear is cocked, straining to make sure my daughter isn’t getting into any trouble in another part of the house. This is how I live my life – like so many moms I know – and after seven years I’m just now realizing how draining it is to my spirit.

The thing that no one tells you before you have a child – seriously, no one tells you this – is how it feels when your time is not your own anymore. Oh, you hear about midnight feedings, and 3am diaper changes. And you think, “ah, that’s manageable.” And it would be, if after the diaper change you could go back into your world, and continue reading the book you were reading, or taking the bath you were taking. Or sleeping and dreaming.

But you can’t. You can’t do that because there is a tiny alien who needs you all. day. long. And you will never be able to pee or cook or write or eat or sleep without that alien needing something. And they don’t talk like normal humans. They talk like aliens. They freak out because when you ask them to put their underwear in the laundry they missed ten seconds of the audiobook *they have listened to no less than 48 times* and need to skip back. Well excuse me, madam, but there’s this thing called a pause button. They throw a fit because they ate their last yogurt, which was their favorite yogurt, and you’re not going to the store until tomorrow – que horror!

And despite the fact that they apparently speak your language, they are unable to comprehend the most basic requests. Like “don’t eat in your bedroom because it will attract ants,” or, “don’t spin around right by the sharp edge of the table which is the same height as your head,” or, “please brush your teeth.”

In the amount of time they spend arguing about why they don’t need to brush their teeth, they could have brushed their teeth 15 times.

It’s a serious mindf*ck.

And yet, when you talk to older people about it (grandparents), they’re all, “oh, enjoy these years! They go by so fast! Make the most of it! They grow up so quickly.”

Know what else goes by fast? A nuclear bomb. Doesn’t mean I want to enjoy it.

Now look, I’m not making an equivalency between parenting a small child – especially during a pandemic – and Hiroshima. But I do think something has to be done about these grandparents who want to relive this stuff, and make us feel guilty because we’re over it. Somebody needs to remind them about rose colored glasses, and tell them to stop judging those of us in the trenches because we want to watch Parks and Rec in peace, or have half an hour to ourselves to listen to music and just sit with our thoughts.

There is nothing wrong with sitting with your thoughts for half an hour. It’s healthy. Some people call it meditating.

Also, those people telling us how great it is and how we need to cherish these times need to remember that when they were in it and we were kids, they let us play in the street unattended. They weren’t doing hands on parenting, and trying to make perfect goddamn Pinterest crafts. They were inside smoking Camel Special Lights and watching The Guiding Light while we kicked cans and talked to strangers who offered us candy.

Thus leading to all the milk carton kids.

I mean, that’s what we grew up seeing every damn morning at breakfast. No wonder we’ve turned into helicopter parents.

And so here we are. I’m straining my ear to make sure my daughter hasn’t snuck outside to play in the pool (despite the fact that she knows not to do this – one can’t be too careful because if something happened, and she forgot for just a minute, she could drown – anxiety and parenting is not a good combination). I’m trying to listen for her opening the fridge to grab the pudding she wants and I’ve told her she can’t have until after dinner.

There’s too much listening for the pitter patter of little aliens to listen to myself.

And so I self medicate in unhealthy ways. I grab a Snickers bar and shove it in my mouth for approximately 45 seconds of endorphins. I scroll through Facebook commiserating with other moms who are banging their heads against the wall because schools aren’t opening, and they’re going to lose their shit if they have to have one more argument about a Zoom class call.

When what I need to be doing is sneaking in workouts. Arm presses for those 45 seconds, instead of a Snickers.

In other related news, I have started a note in Evernote entitled Random Things.

It’s where I remind myself to remember that I’m heartbroken over the fact that Muji has gone into bankruptcy, because I truly love Muji pens, and I wrote some wonderful journal entries living in London with Muji pens. One can’t forget the love one once had for Muji. On Carnaby Street, with the Lush soap place right next door, making everything smell of fruity expensive soap. Rushing to work, or rushing to Pret for lunch.

I also reminded myself that I shouldn’t ever again buy Herbal Essences shampoo in a bid to feel like I’m in college again. It’s cheap shampoo that doesn’t work well on my mature and colored hair now, and while the scent does make me think about college, the hair result isn’t that great. I should just get a bottle and keep it only for smelling. I’ll put on The Smiths, and sit in the bathroom smelling Herbal Essences and dream about shampooing my hair in a jungle somewhere.

But I can’t. Because the alien needs me to make eggs.

And yes, someday I will look back on this hectic time, and it will be too quiet, and then I will be upset about that. But maybe not. Maybe I will be too busy shampooing my hair in an exotic jungle, and enjoying the luxury of not needing to do anything for anybody.