Back to the Office

I cried at the daycare today, for myself, at my disorganization and indecisiveness since having a child. Our provider nodded, and told her own story of how she was splitting at the seams when her first child was born. I hadn't even known I was feeling emotional until the tears were spilling down my face. That's significant frustration.

In a few days, I start back at a paying job. I fantasize about what it will be like without the interruption of sippie cup refills, toddler whining, and howls for "UMIZOOMI!!!" Honestly, it's almost impossible to imagine. I barely know how to prepare. I bought clothes that might look terrible. In fact, my Groupon-priced hairstyle is slightly tragic. It doesn't really matter, though, my mind looks forward to the psychological rest.

It has become clear that my temperament does not easily adjust to distraction. And, specifically to the distractions coming from my own child. There is something about his wails that hit me in the gut, as if I were a digital clock set to the correct time, and his requests pull my plug out of it's socket. I find myself staring blankly, (the clock blinks 12:00), "What am I doing, again?"

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Irritability

Last night was date night for my wife and I. Cheap babysitting at our regular daycare available from 5pm to midnight. My wife and I went out to dinner and had great wine, sumptuous food, and best of all, there was nobody screaming throughout. I was happily asleep by 10pm, and then this morning, my son slept a whole hour late. We're having a fairly good time together. Well, if you don't mind being interrupted every 30 seconds with things being broken or crashing to the floor (or both). My calm inner self, so carefully crafted by last night's cocktails and crab cakes, has vanished. In it's place, just 20 minutes in, is an irritable mind already aching for nap time--already craving more time away. I miss peace that lasts long enough for my own thoughts to gather naturally, meander, and come up with other thoughts borne out of quiet contemplation. That kind of introspective creativity doesn't happen much around here anymore because there's just so little quiet. ...

The Destroyer

Many times, over the past two years plus, have I thought about the idea of creatures that die after giving birth. I usually have the image of the Walking Stick insect, but I think they actually die after having sex. I mean, the male does. I think about this concept because I find myself utterly spent in the process of producing this child of mine. After I've made him food and he's spit it out, and then I've re-made him whatever , and then the chocolate milk in the spouted sippy cup, which then gets poured out unceremoniously on the living room carpet, then cleaning up said mess, finding more of whatever liquid he thinks he wants, etc., ad nauseum, I have literally nothing more to give. Not to my spouse, not to myself. What I want is to lay on a bed in a locked room with no noise for a very long time. Which is much like death, it seems. I used to make art, things of beauty or at least of interest. Now, I clean up after The Destroyer, if I have any energy left at all. A...

Mornings

This is how we start our days. We sit on our rapidly - degrading couch and melt our brains watching varying degrees of terrible kids' TV. I'm not sure how other families deal with super early risers, but this is how I cope. Today, it was 4am, screeched himself back to sleep and then up for the day at 5:39, which is good enough for me.

Eeeny Meeny

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