Oct
14
JB is out of town for several days and while last time I cut him some slack because he was on a business trip that included the once-in-a-lifetime experience of hiking the Great Wall of China, this time he’s . . . well, he’s in Wyoming. Hunting antelope.
Can you even EAT antelope? I don’t think so. I don’t want to try, anyway, unless there’s such a thing as an antelope tiramisu.
Anyway, I’ve been dreading this little testosterone-fest because holy crap, a whole week on my own with the children. I love my boys but uhhhhh, parenting solo with a baby and toddler pretty much shits the bed. And not like a dry, easily-rolled-off-the-sheets turd, either, more like a horrific splattermess a la Trainspotting.
Well, we are making the best of it, as evidenced by recent camera contents:
Heh. I was trying to take a mirrored photo of the two of us, but Grabby McLungerton was all about that camera strap. How apropos that I was wearing my SOMETIMES I WORRY ABOUT ZOMBIES t-shirt.
Boing.
Boinga.
BOINGA.
Riley’s room is messy. I KNOW.
My god, when did he get so big?
(Tonight he told me, “I help you make cookies. That make you happy, Mommy? I like to make you happy.”)
Tell me, what have you been up to lately? Really, I want to know. I’M LONELY OVER HERE.
Oct
13
You know, parenthood can be spectacularly unsexy. Now, I’m sure there are people who would vehemently disagree with me on that statement — possibly while gesturing to the Sybian lurking in their hall closet, ready to erupt into full 120 RPM power as soon as the kids go down for their afternoon nap — but as far as I’m concerned there’s nothing like living with a toddler and an infant to really put a cramp in your style. I mean, there’s the spontaneity issue, or should I say lack thereof; there’s the issue of feeling physically drained after a day of dealing with pint-sized dictators; and as the mother of two boys, there’s a nontrivial amount of head-fuckery that goes on when you deal with miniscule penises all the time and you’re suddenly confronted with an adult-sized one. It’s like . . . well, it’s a little like seeing some kind of freaky, yet faintly comical space creature. Like something in the Mos Eisley Cantina.
(“Hi, I’m an admin for a group called Exotic Sex Toy and Nerdy Star Wars References, and we’d love to have this added to the group!”)
Plus, there is nothing, NOTHING that can kill a mood faster than hearing someone’s little sheep-bleat from the next room: “Eh-heh. Eh-HEH. EHHHH.” Hoo, boy. I suppose actually having a child barge into the room and demand to know why Daddy’s [REDACTED] is on Mommy’s [HILARIOUS EUPHEMISM] would be worse, but a baby’s cry is definitely like a Titanic’s worth of ice-water right on your privates.
It’s not all flaccidity and granny panties, of course, but these days when I think of the letter G I’m more apt to think of General Audience than spot, you know? The other day JB joked that while he’s out of town this week I should invite a girlfriend over to “help me out while he’s gone”, wink wink nudge nudge, and when I rolled my eyes and asked him who in hell he thought I could shanghai into pitching in with round-the-clock diaper changes he said no, not that kind of help, har de har hoo heh ha, and I was all, whatever with your stupid lesbo fantasy, dude, I’m staring down the barrel of another week of solo shit-shrapnel duty over here and my brain has no room for hot girl on girl action, not even if it was Angelina Jolie sporting those Tomb Raider thigh holster deals and a support team of French-speaking nannies.
A prime example of the effect parenthood can have on one’s sex life: while I laughed out loud at the scene in Burn After Reading when a Liberator sex wedge made its appearance (thus outing myself to the entire viewing audience as a person who recognized that triangular shape for what it was, which is to say, not a reflux pillow), my own personal Liberator sex wedge has been permanently repurposed as a children’s “slide”. Because once you’ve seen a toddler joyously rolling down the incline of a Liberator sex wedge, you can never really imagine it being used for any other activity ever again.
(At least I can say this has never happened in our house. Yet.)
The upside to being flattened under a daily tidal wave of unsexy domesticity is that the most boring things on earth are now profoundly pleasing to me. Fuck dirty talk, just tell me how you emptied the dishwasher. Oh yeah. Talk to me about how you did the laundry . . . oh! . . . and actually took clothes out of the dryer and put them away. Yes! Yes! YES! Ahhhh.
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