Friday, April 26, 2013

Joyless

Me, age 34

My house is a disaster, and I am a hot mess.

My husband has just gotten home from work (where he’s enjoyed adult interaction! And eaten his lunch uninterrupted! And used the bathroom without a child trying to peer between his legs to watch the urine come out!). He walks in the door to find:

1. The contents of an entire box of uncooked couscous strewn upon the kitchen floor.
2. Dog pee on our bedroom carpet.
3. One clean load of laundry in the dining room, one dirty load of laundry in the hallway, and one load of laundry (which, disconcertingly, appears to be half-clean/half-dirty) in the bathroom.
4. My four-year-old twin daughters running around, completely naked.
5. My one-year-old son running around, completely naked – except for a tiara and a pink high heel shoe.

My husband is curious to know why our children are naked. There must be some explanation, but I’m at a loss. I can’t grasp how they came to be unclothed. As I explain this to my husband, my voice creeps up an octave, which is never a good sign. Before I can stop myself, I’m launching into a tirade.

I don’t know where our children have put (hidden?) their clothes. Nor do I know why our son is wearing a tiara and a high heel shoe. I don’t even know why I’m letting him wear a high heel shoe in the first place because he’s going to injure himself. I haven’t had a single minute to drag out the vacuum to clean up the couscous. I’m trying in vain to locate the carpet spray to deal with the dog pee. And although I keep tripping on the laundry baskets, they’re going to stay exactly where they are because my laundry-management skills suck.

My husband – who, it must be mentioned, is a great sport and rarely criticizes my mothering abilities or the state of our household – stares in fascination at the large vein pulsing visibly in my forehead. “Take a deep breath,” he says. “Everything is fine.”

He’s trying to get me to lighten up. I am not in the mood to lighten up, and I tell him as much.

“Honey,” he rubs my back. “Don’t be so joyless.”

I am aghast. “I am not joyless!” I say to him. “What a horrible thing to say!”

The truth, however, is that I am joyless. At least in this particular moment. OK, in many particular moments.

In fact – now that I’m giving this some thought – I embrace my joylessness. This is because it’s entirely unrealistic and absurd that, as a mother, I will feel joyful at all times. I wish someone would have alerted me – and my husband – to this dirty little secret before I became a mom. It would have saved us a lot of angst.     

“To hell with being joyful,” I mutter to my husband, who is swiftly retreating. “I’m just trying to survive.”
                                                                
As I resume my fruitless search for the carpet spray, I bolster myself with inspirational thoughts. One day, I tell myself, I will look back at this moment and laugh about it. One day, I’ll be able to manage naked children and spilled couscous (which is freaking everywhere, have I mentioned that?) with serenity and fortitude. One day, I will congratulate myself on how very far I’ve come as a mother.  

But today ain’t that day.

And that, my friends, is OK.



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