Mother may I...

Picture the scenario, dear readers . It's eighty-thirty, all of the offspring have finally been locked in their rooms for the night, the dog has been walked, the dishes have been done, and H, uncharacteristically home for the evening, and I sit down on the couch to watch Survivor. Halfway through the show, I am nursing my, now cold, cup of hot chocolate*, when H asks, "When are you going to be done with that so I can stretch out?" What he means by this, is he wants me to sit at the very end of the couch so he can put his head in my lap and stretch out his bum leg. My reaction?

"CAN I HAVE ONE HOUR A DAY, JUST ONE HOUR, DURING WHICH I DO NOT HAVE TO THINK ABOUT THE NEEDS OF OTHERS AND JUST MY OWN?"

Poor guy. He didn't realize he was feeling the blunt force trauma of a day when I felt like my whole life was being run by others and their needs. It all started innocently enough, with a friend texting me," Hey, wanna go to the St. Patty's parade?" Her children are in school and her husband works from home, so for her, it was a no-brainer. For me, the mental gymnastics began the second my retinas scanned the words. It goes like this:

"OK, St. Pat's is a Thursday, so S will be with Matt, but she has to pick her daughter up at three-thirty, so I'd have to be back to get the girls from school. The parade doesn't start until eleven, and I'd have to get a one forty-five train at the very latest. That's not much time. I could ask Big T to stay with the kids from three-thirty to five, but he's already watching Little Man today so I can take the girls to get ashes at church AND he offered to take the kids over night in a few weeks, so I don't want to bug him again. I could ask my regular high school sitter, but she'd have to do homework with the kids and #1 has her Friday math test the next day, and I'm not sure how well she'd enforce studying time..."

Blah,blah, blah, blah, blah.

After trying to find the perfect solution to this logistical dilemma, I was exhausted and annoyed. At least two times a week I will get a text from H along the lines of, "Stuck in meeting will be late", or "Have to take so-and-so out for dinner, won't be home 'til late". And just like that, his bases are covered. No questions asked, whether it's a work function, or just meeting friends after work for a drink. But for me to get a weeknight out, it's like trying to align the fucking planets, because these kids are my responsibility twenty-four hours a day, Monday through Friday. Any deviation from that plan requires I pay, beg or cajole someone into watching them, since H is out of the picture and relying on "I'll try to get home in time for you to make the movie" is a recipe for disaster.

Yes, yes, I know. This is my job. But trying to take a personal day from this job is hell. My friend S put it best. After you have kids you become plural. Every decision you make revolves around the care and well- being of your family, and, yes, I could say the same for H, but his every shower, meal and bowel movement** does not need to be scheduled around three (or four) other beings. It's like I need everyone else's permission to live my life.

When I stop to think about it, it should make me feel important that I am so central to the lives of these other people that I can not easily call in a sub. And I do feel that way on occasion. I know I will mourn this level of responsibility and connectedness one day, just like I used to complain once in a while about nursing. Having people to be accountable to is part of being in a family, and while being able to walk out the door without a thought might be nice, it would also mean no one was missing me while I Was gone.

*Which, I say, narrowly escapes being on the Lenten-no-sweets list. Look, it's got sugar in it, but it's not a milkshake. You have no idea how hard this first night was. I was almost twitching with the need for sugar. Perhaps that explains the rest of this story.
**Ever wonder why it's women they show in those Activia and Fiber One commercials? H usually goes after his morning cup of coffee. At that point in my day, I'm screaming up the stairs, "DON"T FORGET YOUR SNEAKERS! YOU HAVE GYM TODAY!!!" While trying to wrestle Little Man into his jacket.