Thursday, July 5, 2012

This is Not a Pipe

It's a lousy day.  The sun is shining and I'm stuck at home.  At least the television is finally off. 

I was supposed to have time for myself.  Can I be selfish here?  Don't I deserve time to myself once every couple of years or so?  Can't I say that I'm not available to anyone?  Do I always have to be on call?

I was up last night since my son was sick.  I'm tired of being a good mom.  Really, I am.  He wasn't so sick that he actually needed someone right there with him, yet I slept in the recliner with the television on.  The sound was on low, but no one sleeps well with the television on.  So, today, he's doing his usual, whining about me playing with him despite the fact that I have, arguing that he doesn't want to do his reading, working to get my attention despite my nearly polite request that he manage his life by himself for an hour.  Even now, he's working to get me to look at what he's doing.  He didn't do what I asked him to do which was to make his daily list something he could check off.  His original list looked like this:

brush my teeth shower read do IXL write take my medicine and so on

Yeah, how can you tell that you did that on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday?

I need to get out of the house. I become most crabby after sitting in my living room for the first eight hours of the day with a boy who only wants to watch television.  Can I tell you how crazy that makes me?  Absolutely nuts, boinko poppers, ready for those nice men with nice white suit with the long sleeves.

Right now, he's really working to get me to turn around.  Shit.  I will not turn around.  I need to focus.  My focus can't, just can't turn to him, turn back to him, turn back to what he's doing.  I just need one bleeding minute to myself.

Why is bleeding a bad word in Great Brittan?  What does it actually mean? 

So, what I really want to say is that I need one fucking minute to myself.  Does that put me in danger of being labeled as inappropriate? 

I've been cursing around my son too much lately.  I'm telling you.  I am not a good mom.  I know he's heard the words.  The curses seem to get his attention when none of the nice words do.  Is it a good thing for me to do?  I don't think so.  I don't curse in front of other people.  I never used to curse in front of him.  Why now? 

It sort of feels like he can handle it.  Does it encourage him to talk that way?  I imagine it does.  What if I switch to 'bleeding' instead?  Will he still pay attention to me?  Probably not.  That's really what I'm trying to do, get his attention.  I'm not sure it's working.

He's almost twelve.  I have to tell you that living with a twelve year old boy is hell.  Either that or I'm hell and I'm really messing him up.  Do you remember the push-me-pull-you from the book 'Doctor Doolittle?'  I hated that creature.  It had two heads and could never move forward when it was moving forward.  That creature could never agree which way even was forward.  That's what it's like living with a twelve year old boy.  He wants a hug.  He wants some space.  He wants to be independent.  He can't tie his shoes by himself.  It feels as if he's gone backward in time, as if his emotions and reactions are those of a four year old, only he's the size of a small man, well, a very small man.  He is nearly five feet tall.  He's starting to grow hair on his legs.  His voice hasn't changed yet, but there's more authority there.  There's still an utter lack of understanding about the way the world works, though he thinks he knows. 

Oh, why can't I think of an example of that when I want to? 

I love this kid dearly, but he's driving me nuts.  Do the mother birds start getting annoyed by their pushy little squabs when they're nearly overflowing the nest?  I can imagine a bird getting frustrated.  I can see bringing so much food and always hearing the squawking, the incessant squawking.  Just be quiet, just for one bleeding minutes.

The dog is groaning.  I'm not sure it's because he doesn't feel well.  He didn't eat his breakfast until late this afternoon.  Or maybe he's bored and I need to take him for a walk.  A walk would be good.  Can I leave the boy behind so I can take a moment to myself? Probably not, but that means that I'm going to have to coax him along for every little bit of distance I do.  I just want to be able to go walk for three or four miles at a decent pace without having to drag, lure, coax, push anyone to keep up with me. 

How do single mothers do this?  My husband is off at Boy Scout camp.  My son was there until a couple of days ago when he had to come home because he was sick.  He was never really very sick.  I would have made him stick it out except it reached a point that it seemed cruel and I'm not willing to push my agenda to the point of cruelty.  I come close sometimes.  Another boy seems to have the same problem only my husband seems to think it's digestive.  I mean, it's hard to have a good time when things haven't moved in a week.  The boy won't eat any of the prunes my husband is offering.  Oh, that's going to hurt later.  Just how long can a body postpone something like that without absolutely being forced to go? 

TMI again. 

These are issues at camp.  They just are.  I've been on a couple of week long trips during which someone didn't do their business for a week.  It makes a body pretty sick. 

So my boy is home with me when I was going to have three whole days to myself for the first time since he was four.  Is that so much to ask? 

Now, don't go giving me advice or making comments.  This is all fiction.  Even the nice-mom blogs are fiction.  Don't you know that by now?  The ones that always have something sweet to say are lying, or they're not complete human beings.  I do know a few people who are just calmer and quieter than I am.  There are variations in humanity that way, but no mom is without her moments.  No one does it right all of the time, one hundred percent.  No one does it all wrong either.  

So when I say this is fiction, I'm trying to tell you that the truth is only here in my living room.  You are not here.  You can't see anything here.  You can only see through the words I write.  Fiction.  All of it, with a touch of real emotion. 

Can you tell that I've got a problem with what's going on somewhere else?  I'm just sick of always singing 'It's a small world after all' with that Stepford smile on my bleeding face.  I've never been Mary Poppins and I never will be. 

Thank you for listening, jules

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