Monday, November 9, 2009

Hey, where'd you get your lobotomy?

Here it is Monday morning ,and I never thought I would be so glad. I might hate weekends. Before I had kids, I used to love weekends. They used to signify late breakfast,reading a book ,going out for dinner.Now they largely signify dashed expectations. Not entirely, but sometimes. And I have an amazing husband who is a great loving playful father to two fantastic kids. But still...
 My weekend was filled with socializing and birthdays and the dreaded football games, as usual, but somehow this weekend felt like lots of cooking special meals and doing dishes and wondering why I was the only person cleaning up or putting toys away. I suppose it is my own fault.I have become my mother in my attempts to get the other three people in my house to assist me in the daily routine.Mostly impatience and yelling,which yields anxiety and ultimately mutiny.
On Saturday, I politely requested that the merry threesome ( Big, Little and Little Big Man) dismantle their fantastic fort( a monstrosity of every blanket,pillow,stuffed animal and babydoll draped over the dollhouse and kitchen-I hate the fort)prior to leaving for brunch. I have a need to leave my house in some sort of visual state of order so that, despite the piles of crap and toys and kid art and stuff that exist, I don't have to look at them upon entering the house. It does wonders for my mental state to return to a neat enough home. Coming back to piles of dirty dishes and trash and uneaten breakfast on the table and floor sends me into a tailspin,from which I rarely recover. I spend the rest of the weekend  angrily shoving things where they belong, muttering obscenities under my breath and wondering why anyone gets married ever....
SO that being said, I insist that they promise to clean it up before we go to brunch.Little and Big aquiesce but the largest  child of 38 skirts it. Big even presses him to commit to a clean up and he says "we'll see" and retreats into the fort. I realize that means he isn't going to spearhead any kind of clean up effort, but I hope for the best.I return from grocery shopping to find a fully formed fort with two adorable kids and so many disparate items inside that I instantly break out in hives. I try and appreciate the cute factor but the desire to put it all away is overwhelming. We have no time to clean up.We have thirty minutes to get ready and get to the valley.He sits on the couch and watches tv while I dress,shoe and groom the girls and  vainly attempt to pick up what I can off the floor in the three minutes I have left.
He has no idea that I am  seething, and I start thinking that maybe those Stepford folks were on to something. Wouldn't life be better if all  of the expectation was removed from domestic life? Roles would be clear. I would do all household chores and do most of the childcare/tending.He would earn  the money and spend his free time however he pleased- working out, watching tv, playing with the kids.Everyone wins, right?Except that I would have to be gutted and my parts replaced with robot entrails to tolerate such an arrangement. Or brainwashed, or whatever they do there in Stepford.
I try and pinpoint why I get so crazy when things turn out the exact same way every single weekend, and I have come to this conclusion: I despise laziness. Having been notoriously lazy as a child, I kind of know what it looks like.While it implies all sorts of things about a person's personality, the bottom line is, lazy is unfair.It isn't a team anymore if one person isn't doing their part.
Now, the argument could be made that they might not be lazy,  their standards just might be different. Or that their overall contribution precludes them from domestic responsibilities.  Yeah well, I suppose I should feel extremely lucky that am not in a refugee camp.I can assume the women of Darfur aren't bitching about the toilet seat being speckled with urine while they risk rape or worse in foraging for firewood. It is shaming to think that people subsist like that,while I am peevishly refolding the disassembled newspaper left all over the floor in the bathroom or apoplectically jamming the game pieces from every board game we own into their rightful boxes.  I am wondering if there is something less traumatizing than genocide to quell that resentment nurturing aspect of my personality.Drugs don't really work.Booze is sloppy. Therapy is too expensive.
 I also realize,after the fact of course, that none of this is a big deal. Whatever, so the fort stayed and I cleaned it up.It took five minutes.Whatever, so no one ate the delicious hot breakfast that I spent twenty minutes making and another ten cleaning up. Whatever, so there was water on the bathroom floor again-I mean, I almost slipped and fell for the third time this week, but I didn't right? Pshaw- who cares if every pile of clean laundry that is neatly stacked on his side of the bed is literally knocked on the floor at bedtime. He just asks me where it is the next day...not a big deal, right? Yeah, my tail is twitching just thinking about that last one... I could go on forever about the good the bad and the inevitable, so the question is, who knows a good neurosurgeon, because I think I need a lobotomy....

2 comments:

  1. You're funny ;) We shall discuss at further length over dinner and wine. When?

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  2. OK too funny: the verification code for my last comment was "dichup." Which I choose to invest with the following meaning: when the menfolk don't do what you want / they said they would do / you were hoping they would figure out, it's a "dichup" (dick+hiccup).

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