Nov
14
November 14, 2006
Here is an odd realization I had recently: my office job is currently the most relaxing thing I do. From the mostly solo commute time when I can blare music at top volume and set my brain on Standby to my three days a week of email, meetings, and phone calls, compared to toddler-wrangling it’s all one giant stress-free bubble bath.
It’s not that my job has changed, or my environment – there are still last-minute projects, poorly planned activities, and colossal miscommunications (although, nothing that’s particularly unique to my own workplace; if a job exists that doesn’t occasionally flail around in its own dysfunction I’ve yet to find it), but everything, literally every single thing, is one hundred times easier than taking care of Riley.
I’m not saying it’s preferable (although it sometimes is), and I’m definitely not issuing some blanket statement about parenting being harder than career work, I’m just saying that for me personally, the same job that used to cause me to grind my teeth and wake me up at 3 AM to stare at the ceiling and compose long-winded monologues I would never actually deliver, is now akin to a thrice-weekly spa treatment.
Who would have fucking guessed that, huh?
Perhaps you can tell I had a bit of a challenging weekend. As I mentioned, Riley and I went to visit my family in Port Angeles (my aunt deserves some kind of nationally-recognized medal for driving us there and back), and let me tell you, by the time I got home on Sunday afternoon all I could do was turn on an Elmo DVD, collapse on the floor, and pray fervently for bedtime to arrive. I think the boy is teething, as evidenced by the bucketloads of drool constantly cascading from his lower lip, and that was maybe a contributor to his general…uh, cantankerousness the last couple of days.
I don’t know, I guess I sort of thought things would get easier as he got older, but each stage just raises the bar. There are so many times when I don’t know what the hell to do in any given situation, and it’s frustrating; I wish there were hard-and-fast rules, I wish I had more confidence in my own parenting abilities.
I look back on some of the journal entries I wrote when he was a younger baby and I miss some of the feelings I had back then; I was starry-eyed about almost everything (“O the miracle of your poop! O the angelic chorus of your cries!”). And I was proud of myself for stepping up to the tasks at hand.
Now it all feels more…like the pretty Gaussian blur has been removed from the job of parenthood. It’s harsher and everything moves faster and the yelling is much, much louder.
In some ways the rewards are greater, too. Watching my son grow and learn is a brilliant gift that makes me happy every single day. His little face never fails to make my heart feel full, my soul lifted and given flight. He responds in ways he couldn’t before, in ways that shatter me and dissolve all the bleakness I’ve ever carried. He makes me feel like the world is inherently a good place; that life is, by default, a wondrous and magical thing.
But it’s also so hard, and so relentless. I know that sounds whiny as hell. I know. I wish there wasn’t so much second-guessing, and plain old guessing (Is he teething? Hungry? Tired? Possessed by demons?), when you’re stressed out and exhausted it sucks to play Mental 20 Questions over and over. I hate worrying about vaccinations and being asked which schools we’re looking into (Um…schools? What? You mean ‘the one that’s closest’ isn’t the right answer?) and whether or not it’s okay to still let him drink from a bottle and what to do when he has a complete and total meltdown in public and jesus, this is nothing compared to all the shit we still have to face, and I just want to do the exact right perfect thing that will ensure his happiness, well-being and safety, forever and ever, is that too much to ASK?
Which is all to say that this year, preparing for the Macworld Expo in January is a goddamned breeze. A tropical fucking breeze filled with salt-tinged air and little paper umbrellas. Bring on the nightmarish deadlines and botched print jobs, because, and I think this would make a fine T-shirt slogan, trade shows are easier than toddlers.
Nov
9
November 9, 2006
I really enjoyed reading your last great thing comments (I now have a Scum Buster to buy and a box of Snickers ice cream bars to devour) and so did JB; he’s officially convinced he should drop his XM radio in favor of Sirius.
I tried to think of the last great thing I bought for my own self and I think the answer is a “mini-prep” Cuisinart, which was purchased to replace the older, smaller one I broke a while back. Totally not as interesting as your answers, what with your trips to Paris and new kittens and exotic perfumes and chocolate body lotions and all.
Riley appears to have made a speedy recovery, just in time for JB to return from the business trip he was on during Barforama 2006. The man flew to Chicago to have Brazilian barbecue dinners (“More meat on a stick, sir?”) with suit-wearing clients while I was trapped in a House of Barf obsessively googling “vomiting +toddler+should+I+fucking+panic+or+what”, I think he owes me a favor or two. (I can just picture him reading this, nodding his head and raising his eyebrows like the sleazy guy from Office Space [the “O face” guy] and saying, “I’ll give you a favor, baby.” I AM TALKING ABOUT THE BRAND NEW FULLY LOADED INFINITI FX KIND OF FAVOR, JACKHOLE. In black with the tan leather interior, thanks.)
This weekend Riley and I are descending upon my mother and aunt’s house in Port Angeles, where they will doubtlessly immediately regret their cheery invitation once he demonstrates how he can actually shatter glass with his voice, now that he’s a bit older since the last visit. Then again, maybe grandparents see their grandchildren through eternal rose-colored glasses; JB’s mom sure goes on and on about how Riley’s such a “good, sweet kid” and I have caught myself thinking, wait, are you talking about THIS KID RIGHT HERE? Don’t get me wrong, I’d take a bullet for him even on a bad day, but are you talking about the kid who is currently going apoplectic over the existence of carseat restraints? You must mean sweet like a lemon.
(Actually, now that I think about it Riley’s usually on better behavior when there are lots of people around, I think he enjoys the activity and attention and is less likely to burst into actual flames over a dropped toy. This is a rule with no guarantees, however, considering that he recently chose a crowded Fred Meyers to protest at top volume the great injustice of socks.)
So tomorrow we’ll be taking the ferry (the ferry, not the ferry boat as they repeatedly and annoyingly say on Grey’s Anatomy, it’s a goddamn ferry, saying ferry boat is like saying car vehicle; ferry ferry ferry ferry!) over to Kingston and driving up the peninsula; I’m looking forward to getting the hell out of Dodge for a while.
JB will be spending his own weekend shooting at innocent, moist-eyed Bambi-esque woodland creatures in Oregon. God help me, I actually encouraged this activity because he doesn’t get to spend much time with the Menfolk wearing their Hickory Shirts and Crapping in the Woods Wherever They Damn Well Please. Of course, that was before the Barf-fest so I hope he brings me back something purty. Like an Infiniti, not a fucking elk pelt.
If you’re not sick of me asking, and I totally understand if you are, what are your own plans?
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