I am having one of those days. Actually, it’s the second such day, which means that I have been having one of those days for about 24 hours too long now. I am having one of those days in which I do not like being a parent. And, also, one of those days in which I do not like being pregnant. Which, as a pregnant parent, puts me in the uncomfortable position of disliking the most important aspects of my current existence.
I love my daughter. I shouldn’t even have to say it. I love her to the heights and depths, etc, etc, as I do my unborn son. I love that I am her, and his, mother. But I just don’t like being a mother, the activity of being a mother, right now, not so much.
I’m just so tired. I’m eight and half months pregnant. My back aches and my legs are cramping and I haven’t slept in days. I don’t so much walk as lumber. And my sweet little girl, home from daycare since Wednesday while HBF is off doing husbandly things, is determined that my incapacities not interfere with her pursuit of world domination. We cannot have quiet time, we cannot snuggle, and we cannot lurk indoors. There are worlds – and parks and trees and sidewalks and schoolyards and grocery stores – to conquer, at maximum velocity, and she will not be dissuaded from doing it all nownownowMOMMYWEGONOW. It does not matter that I am greatly slowed and incapable of meeting all of her demands: thwart her, oppose her, deny her will… I will be rewarded with an epic tantrum. Cyrus of Persia, the Tarquins of Rome, Napoleon, Stalin – they knew nothing of the imposition of the will as the force behind true tyranny. They did not have toddlers.
I am, today, whipped and beaten and thoroughly down. I am physically spent, and mentally and psychically weak from flagellating myself with guilt – am bad mother am bad mother – and just exhausted. Also, the espresso machine is broken.
Dora is my last hope. All of my remaining energies will be channelled into convincing the dictator that she really, really wants to watch Dora. If I succeed, I will curl up under the blankets and suckle a dark chocolate bar. If I do not succeed… well, if you don’t hear from me – or if you happen to hear the screaming – somebody may need to send help. Allied Forces, some UN peacekeepers and a hostage negotiator or two might do the trick.