Around 2000 B.C. (Before Caden), I guiltlessly lounged around as many Saturdays as possible and watched double, triple, and quadruple features of any Lifetime movie that presented itself to me on said Saturday. Butt on couch, blanket within snuggling reach, I would begin the estrogen fest at approximately noon and depending on the evening’s plans, continue on until it was finally time to shower and present myself to the world (or at least the local dessert shop) or time to move my butt from the couch to the bed. Some movies I would actually see through to completion while others faded in and out depending on how long my nap lasted. Not a thought of wasted days entered my childless mind. There was no waste in teenage pregnancy, murdering adulterers, or vengeful ex-wives.
I’ve traveled the path of grievance for those days of B.C. Days when an afternoon of bad t.v. was just as important as grocery shopping. Days when sleeping in didn’t equate to 7:30 a.m. Days when I could tell my husband, in one complete, coherent sentence, that I’ve decided that I’m not cooking dinner tonight instead of – “I’m not – what Caden? No you can’t sit in the dog’s crate. Cook- No, Caden, we're not having cookies for dinner." Notice thought was never – and is never – completed.
I’ve stumbled along this path when shopping, bathing, awakening, eating, walking, working, breathing, BEING:
1. Denial – “Funny how at 5 a.m. this pillow over my head seems to be playing a continuous loop of ‘Mommy, I awake now!”
2. Anger – “Why can’t I say one $#%^*#* sentence in it’s #&$%@! entirety?”
3. Bargaining – “Seriously Dr. Pediatrician, if you just take him back, I won’t tell ANYONE. It’ll just be our little secret”
4. Depression – “wahhhhhhhh” (that’s me, crying)
5. Acceptance – “Fine, he can stay. He’s 2 ½ now, just 15 ½ years to go. Any chance of parole?”
I grieve for the days when left alone, no husband, no child, I could sit and do NOTHING. In times B.C. it seemed I had all the time in the world. My husband went out tonight with his friend – payback, I guess for leaving him all afternoon with little man while I shopped for window treatments with my mom (an aside - I am a window treatment failure. I would rather spend an afternoon with a tantrum-throwing know-it-all 2 year-old than shop for curtains). I agreed to the tag team - I’m home now you leave - since he’d be leaving only an hour before Caden’s bedtime. That meant just one hour with the whirling dervish and I was FREE. Home Alone. Hands on cheeks, look in mirror - AHHHHHH!
My good-intentioned husband asks me what I’m planning to do tonight. He suggests asking my parents over to keep me company. After 10 years of being together, he knows what I want nothing more (as much as I love him, my child, my parents and the company of others whom I actually enjoy) is to be ALONE. But instead of plopping my free butt on the couch to check out what’s on Lifetime, I tell him my list of things to do in the 3.5 hours that I’ll be awake: remove the rubber ducky border from the bathroom (please note: this was from the previous owners), prime the bathroom, paint the bathroom, write this essay, fold the laundry, do a few scrapbook pages, send some work emails, bathe the dog, take a shower, and read.
Yes, I did say in 3.5 hours. As of now, I have 1.5 hours to go and I have removed the rubber ducky border from the bathroom and that in itself is success (if not just a small triumph in getting that ridiculous bathroom into a condition worthy of peeing in). I’ll see what else I can get accomplished, but I can pretty much guarantee it won’t be a marathon of television for women who hate men. Those days are so over. Now where is that gallon of primer?