Author: Bethany

5Sep

Just Call Me Peter Pan

How to feel like an adult:
1. Promise your husband an authentic Italian cappuccino, even though you yourself have never made one before.
2. Ask husband how to make one.
3. Spoon coffee grounds into tiny filter of espresso pot. Spill less than 50%. Not bad!
4. Pour milk into frother.
5. Place coffee pot and frother on stove. Light stove valiantly, even though you are still afraid of the invisible killer gas lying in wait to erase the few brain cells that pregnancy hasn’t already devoured. Think, “This isn’t so hard!”
6. Observe steam blasting madly from sides of espresso pot. Smell the coffee burning. Listen to the hiss of milk spilling over the frother and into the open flame.
7. Call husband to help.
8. Once husband gets all under control, repeat steps 3-6. Success at last!
9. Serve husband lovely, authentic, frothy, non-burnt, self-made cappuccino. Feel grown-up, etc.

How to feel much less like an adult later the same evening:
1. Put seizure-inducing, radioactively bright tie-dye sheets on bed.
2. Lie awake on tie-dye sheets much too late with husband, giggling and whispering in the dark as if someone were about to come in and tell you to GO TO SLEEP NOW… which someone should have.

Hey, wouldn’t want to grow up too quickly now…

2Sep

September Slump

I’m in a droopy mood right now, though I shouldn’t be. The sunshine today has been so light and fluffy, and lemon meringue breeze is still floating in through our wide-open windows. Natalie has hardly stopped singing all day. Plus, even though the spiky green germs gouging out the inside of my head exempt me from having to be productive, I was able to write for 2-1/2 hours this afternoon. I should feel like tap-dancing in a glittery dress, not pulling on yoga pants and burying my face in a pillow.

It’s frustrating that my brain cannot manage to stay in a happy place for longer than five minutes at a time. I really don’t try to be moody or complicated or all the other adjectives usually reserved for women during PMS. I just can. not. manage. to feel like I’ve climbed high enough on my list of “Shoulds” to justify feeling good about myself. And yes, I realize that’s both absurd and counterproductive. I realize that with my personality, I will always come up with “Should do” lists too long and time-consuming for me to make much of a dent.

So, where this entry is going, I have no idea. I don’t have any neat, pre-packaged revelations that I can tie a ribbon around and bestow upon my psyche. Even if I did, I hang out with the kind of guilt that is completely impervious to logic. No chance of reasoning my way to good cheer, guaranteed.

Maybe it’s just overflow from last September, when I started a teaching job that nearly sucked the life out of our family and made me want never to teach again. Or maybe from the previous September, when I was a cleaning lady–the only job I could find that didn’t require putting newborn Natalie in daycare–and feeling 200 degrees of unfulfillment. Of course, there’s always the September before that, when I found myself stocking shelves, trying to come to grips with an unexpected pregnancy, and feeling utterly lost in the world. I guess I don’t have much hope in Septembers anymore.

I miss starting school at this time of year (nerd alert… but you probably already knew that). I loved jumping into challenges that came with syllabi and final exam dates and objectives I knew I could handle. I even liked the deadlines, because I knew once each date came, I would have accomplished something definite. Now, I feel like I’m struggling to fit motherly and housewifely duties into an academic life that I don’t have rights to anymore.

I still don’t have any glossy way to wrap this up, but I am hoping upon hope that this September will end my three-year trend of soul-numbing, joy-crushing days… that I can wake up each morning excited about what I get to do… that even if all I do is mother my daughter and love my husband and take care of the little tasks of survival, I can feel valuable at the end of the day.

1Sep

A Cold Start

Happy September!

To celebrate the beginning of a new month, my daughter thoughtfully gave me her cold. Now, while Natalie’s version of a cold involves running around the house singing at the top of her lungs while ignoring the occasional nasal drip, my version involves lying immobile with a refrigerator-sized head, an overflowing sinus system, and a profound sense of “OWWW.”

If I don’t survive the weekend, at least you’ll know why.

30Aug

All That Time

So you don’t currently have a job; what do you do with all that time?

8:00a – Wake up. Wonder why I feel like a poorly-engineered hybrid between a whale and overcooked spaghetti. Wonder also why my internal organs feel as though they’ve been through a 40-round boxing match. Have the vague sense that I used to have abdominal muscles, but can’t quite remember where I put them.

8:03a – Remember I’m 7 months pregnant. Ah.

8:15a – Set table, pour juice, get out vitamins, cut bananas for cereal, gather napkins from afar… and realize husband and daughter have already finished breakfast. Feel horridly motherish.

8:45a – 10:25a – Clean up from breakfast, sweep house, primp, re-sweep house after Natalie procures fresh dirt from her secret stockpile, run two loads of laundry, water flowers, sing forty-five verses of “Old MacDonald” (including the ever-popular elephant and kangaroo variations), dress Natalie, wipe Natalie’s nose 5,142 times (how did she manage to catch a cold in August?), clean Natalie’s room, wipe Natalie’s nose another 4,916 times, and sing on demand “the Elmo song,” “the Ernie song,” “the Bert song,” “the Barney song,” “the tomato song,” and “the broccoli song” (guess how many of those I actually know?).*

10:26a – 11:45a – “Mommy, you want to read a story?” Translation: “Mommy, I want you to read me every story we own, and then some more, until your vocal chords start making horrible grating noises. And then just one more, pleeeeeeease?”

11:46a – 12:35p – Let MP3 player take over Sesame Street Sing-along duties. Channel my inner Martha and prepare an unrecognizable form of chicken for lunch, using things like capers and fresh rosemary from my little balcony garden. Feel very impressive and Ratatouille.

12:36p – Wonder why I’m melting into puddles of sweat, steaming like a teakettle, and then evaporating when such pleasant, mild breezes are blowing through the windows. Wonder also why I find myself on the brink of starvation just half an hour before lunch. Fight the urge to consume a pre-lunch snack of everything in our cupboards. Conclude death is imminent.

12:40p – Remember I’m 7 months pregnant. Right.

12:45p – Put deliciously clean, sunshine-scented sheets on beds. Fight the overwhelming urge to nap for an hour or four (see above).

1:02p – Suddenly realize gourmet chicken contraption has been in oven for… a while. Discover it burnt, of course. On cue, polenta explodes all over stove and grievously injures my finger. Feel not so much like Martha Stewart, more like Mr. Bean.

1:15p – Welcome husband home for “Blackened Chicken Medley” and “Firecracker Polenta.” Enjoy lunch despite itself. Bravely conquer dishes despite wounded finger, and feel a little like William Wallace.

2:15p – Finally collapse onto lovely clean sheets to nap.

2:45p – Can’t.

2:50p – Dan, getting ready to go back to work, invites me to go with him to the electronics store tonight. Fondly reminisce about last night’s trip to the electronics store in which I inadvertently set off the store alarm and, in my consternation over our bus being 15 minutes late, left our bag at the bus stop, giving Dan the unique opportunity to run frantically through town in the dark to rescue our new telephone, which turned out not to be in its box in the first place. I opt to stay home.

3:00p – Settle onto couch with laptop and aspirations of grandeur. Nothing will stop me from writing this afternoon!

3:01p – Natalie wakes up crying and rubbing her head. Soothe, kiss, and put her back to sleep. Wonder mildly if she could have head lice.

3:10p – Wish I knew what lice looked like. Resist impulse to reawake Natalie and search every pore on her scalp.

3:14p – Start to feel terrified of couch, bed, own hair, and every other soft substance in our house. Wonder where one goes to buy industrial-strength gasoline in this town.

3:18p – Reflect that if bugs are found occupying heads of anyone in a 20-mile radius, I will surely die.

3:19 – 3:26p – Shudder violently.

3:27p – Tired, tired, tired from all this worrying. Doze off despite my newfound phobia of pillows. Firmly resolve to be up by 4:00. I will write this afternoon!

4:00p – Press snooze.

5:15p – Wake up. Stare at ceiling during that buffer zone between waking up and getting up in which I closely resemble the undead.

5:20p – Get up, though still a zombie. Snack: brains. I mean, popcorn.

5:30p – And coffee yogurt, because I’m adventurous like that. (And also because, despite the widely-known fact that coffee and yogurt should never mix, it’s spectacularly yummy.)

5:35p – And wafers, which are basically crisped air with vanilla creme filling, yet snacks nonetheless.

5:40p – Natalie: “Mommy, my head hurts!” (Rub, rub, rub.) Me: “Why does your head hurt?” Natalie, shrugging: “I don’t know anymore.” Call husband to see if the internet knows whether Natalie has lice or not.

5:55p – The internet isn’t sure but can tell me how to save 15% or more on my car insurance. So helpful.

6:10p – Give Natalie shampoo of the century. Remind her 46 times to stop drinking the bathwater (a favorite pastime of hers since her very first bath).

6:40p – Peel off her scalp and dissect it with the finest-toothed comb in modern history. Find nothing growing on it but hair. Rejoice!

6:50p – Wonder why else Natalie’s head would hurt. Can only think of leprosy. Feel slightly like House, M.D.

6:55p – Natalie starts chanting, “PLAYGROUND! PLAYGROUND! PLAYGROUND!” Am amazed that she remembers my promise of a trip to the playground from 9 hours ago, while I cannot seem to remember why my own stomach looks like a watermelon. Revisit fears that other moms will criticize, ostracize, and possibly throw gravel at me for not speaking perfect Italian.

7:00p – Look at Natalie’s bright, expectant little face, suck up my fears, and walk with her to playground. Natalie surveys the 803 other children running amok around all the exciting equipment and opts instead to sit in a pile of gravel already occupied by a little girl, her mother, and a plastic shovel (“I help play!”). Ask the mother if it is OK for us to join them, and she briefly says yes without looking up. Awkward silence ensues. Feel like a trespasser. Quite certain of being prosecuted.

7:15p – Hear mother speaking to daughter in… well, not-Italian (something closer to a coughing fit actually). Realize that I might not be the only foreigner in Italy. Realize that I might not be the only woman at the playground afraid of talking. Realize I’ve been wretchedly pathetic.

7:20p – 8:00p – Start a conversation with the other mother. Help Natalie make a new friend. Relax. Feel like Wonder Woman.

8:01p – Dan returns from non-disastrous (i.e. – wifeless) trip to electronics store, and we settle into our evening together. Am happy to be.

29Aug

And The Emmy Goes To…

Natalie at breakfast: “Mommy, I want some yogurt.”
Me: “Sure! Just finish your toast.”
Natalie, vehemently shaking her head: “All done with toast! I want yogurt!”
Me: “I’d be happy to give you some yogurt as soon as you finish your toast.”

I failed to realize I was setting heinously cruel expectations for my little girl. After all, I happen to know she adores toast. Plus, even if her good-natured taste buds had unexpectedly changed in the middle of breakfast, she only had half a bite left. Slathered in her favorite strawberry jelly, no less.

At any rate, Natalie found my words unbearably harsh and became emotional. And by emotional, I mean wracked with heartbroken, life-is-over sobs, tears flooding down her little cheeks. I knew I couldn’t hand over the yogurt without creating one of those monsters children who scream and writhe in agony through grocery store aisles after their mothers refuse to buy them Sugar-Frosted Sugarbombs, but Natalie was a truly heart-wrenching sight.

Just when I thought I was going to start crying, she stopped, sighed wearily, and told me, “You’re hard, Mommy.” Battle over, she promptly ate her toast.

I passed over the yogurt in a mild state of shellshock, because — holy cow — the inconsolable weeping was fake? This girl deserves an Emmy for Best Breakfast Time Drama. And holy freaking COW, what am I going to do when she reaches puberty? [12-year-old Natalie at breakfast: “But Mom, I’m all done with milk! I want Jack Daniels!”] At least she’s realizing now that I’m a “hard,” relentless dictator who is devoid of human kindness and pity even when her daughter is in the [fake] depths of despair.

::Cries::

28Aug

Insomnialus Maniacus

This is my fifth sleepless night in a week. If this doesn’t stop, I am sure to go legally insane and start biting people.*

I hate sitting down to write only because I have nothing else to do with my ADHD brain. I’d rather write from inspiration, or at least valiant work ethic. And I’d rather sleep at night.

I’m tired of being bullied by blank pages when I sit down to work. I’m tired of days ending abruptly and without closure, their tedium spilling over into each new morning. I’m tired of feeling like the only person on the planet who can’t manage to do simple things like sleep and be Martha Stewart.** Mostly, I’m just tired.

Anyone know a cure for insomnia/sporadic writer’s block/general slumpiness? I’m leaning towards warm milk spiked with LSD…

* Not necessarily in that order. ::Chomps at bit::

** Ornamental frozen napkin rings, anyone?

23Aug

In Case I Felt Like Mopping…

Lesson of the Day:
When a monsoon hurricane carnivorous thunderstorm is raging outside, don’t leave all the windows open, reasoning that rain falls straight down and thus will not flood the house. Thunderstorms, it turns out, are not reasonable creatures.

Current mood: Wet
Mood of house: Pissed

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