The problem with being a mother is that you have to do it all the time.
I need a part-time arrangement. Even ¾ time would work. But this round-the-clock, 365-day a year bullshit? Yeah. It ain’t workin’ for me.
And don’t even give me that “You could get a job out of the home to “get a break.”
THAT IS NOT A BREAK. That is not release from responsibility. That is not “letting go and relaxing.”
You know what that is? It’s Responsibility Rearrangement. The job doesn’t go away, it just gets moved to Saturdays and Sundays and between the hours of 6pm and midnight. The shit gets concentrated into a mind-numbing ball of “I AM THE QUEEN OF MEDIOCRITY” and “What the fuck is happening to my house?”
And “Yeah okay cool no big deal. I’ll just do SEVEN DAYS OF WORK in one afternoon, the only afternoon all week I have free. Yay!”
All day and all night every fucking week. These are subhuman conditions. There’s no “job” on the planet like this. There’s nothing in the world you can’t check out from, except this job.
You can’t call in sick. The bosses don’t care.
You can’t call in for a “mental health” day. (That may actually be a good thing cause God knows I’d be pulling those at least 2 days a month). You can’t “leave the workday” at home because the motherfucking workday is the home.
And unlike other jobs where everybody pretty much EXPECTS you to bitch about your boss and coworkers, this is the round-the-clock, must-be-infinitely-grateful job.
If you bitch about your bosses (manifesting in the form of tiny dictators calling you “mama”) running your life, you’re ungrateful. And they are some messed-up bosses. Taketaketaketaketaketake. Pay back in 5-second intervals of cuteness and strange motherly adoration.
Also an occasional cuddle and/or dimples in elbows.
If you bitch about your coworker (partner) you should shut the hell up because some people do this alone you know.
Oh bite me.
Sometimes I just want to check the fuck out of motherhood.
Bye bye. Ciao. I’m out.
BUT I CAN’T.
But I try.
I’ve been trying lately. I have spent the last week gauging the success of my day by how well I could get my kids to leave me the hell alone. My efforts have included (though this list is not inclusive): hiding in my bed with the fan on to drown out the sound of their voices; taking really, really long showers with the door locked; barricading myself on the couch with 19 piles of laundry so they can’t sit near me; sitting on the front porch while they flailed around in the house and I conscientiously pretended they weren’t there; plugged all three of them into Netflix much endlessly while I mess around on my iPhone in the furthest corner of the house.
THIS IS WHY I NEED A PART-TIME ARRANGEMENT, PEOPLE. This is not their fault. This is my fault. I need a break. This is the point at a desk job where you realize you’ve spent the first hour of every morning staring blankly at the wall of your cubicle and you’ve actually fantasized throwing the water cooler at the head of your closest work companion and every body and everything EVEN THE CARPET and you’re like “Oh dude. I need a vacation. Now.” And then you go and come back and it’s better.
I NEED THAT PEOPLE. The “go, come back and it’s better” part.
Instead, I get the same.
My tween’s attitude has reached catastrophic levels, and, like a super-mature specimen of motherhood, I recently yelled at her “Do you really think you’re gonna win the crazy dramatic female contest? Are we playing that game? Cause oh hell no kid YOU KNOW I’M WINNING. I will always win that one dude. ASK YOUR FATHER!!!”
And then I threw a small flowered purse stuffed with clay at the door. It was one of my shining parenting moments.
We’re supposed to be moving in 2 to 3 weeks so this is what my house looks like.
My toddler has decided she needs to wake up sometime between 12am and 3am to PEE. Fucking PEE. I tried putting her back in a diaper but she looked at me like “Oh hell no bitch I’m not into regression. Why don’t you shove that pull-up up your ass? Mmmkay?”
Then, she wants to sleep in our bed, with her feet on my breasts. When she wakes up she declares “Mama your nipples are like little mountains I can walk on!”
When they get home from school, I make them do chores to spite them.
My boy is alright, except he’s 8. He’s a boy and he’s 8. DO I NEED TO SAY MORE?
And let’s talk about my coworker. He’s been working 6 days/week, often staying out of town. Yeah, that’s right. So I’m alone. The other night he called me and he was like “Dude this motel is so bad I had to wait for people to hit the meth pipe before I walked up the stairs to my room.”
So then I tell him in my most supportive voice that he better not bring home motherfucking bedbugs. And then I get my head on straight and realize “OhMyGod he could get murdered by a tweaker who thinks he’s the CIA agent who’s been hiding in the microwave (probably on account of that damn pornstache my husband insists upon) and I’m gonna be left here with the three dictators from hell and a house to pack and a hallway that looks like this.
I fucking quit.
I need to just walk away from motherhood for like 2 days. No kids. No home. No contact with reality.
But I can’t. Neither can you.
We’re in this for the long haul, baby.
This is the forever job. The forever fucking job. And the worst part is, when I’m in my finest moment seething in self-pity and SURE my life will never resemble something actually livable, some broad tells me in the grocery store: “Oh honey they grow up so fast.”
And I’m like “Define ‘fast,’ bitch. I’ve got 3 kids spaced apart in such a manner than I’ve been doing this job for 12 years and I’ll be doing it for 15 more, which means for 27 years I’ll be working my motherfucking ass off day in and day out on a full-time basis 365 days a years, sick or well, into it or over it, mentally sound or totally off my damn rocker, and you’re gonna sit here and tell me it’s over ‘fast?!’”
Except that I know she’s right, which just pisses me off more, and adds some fucking overtime to my day job as I lie there at night wondering how much of my dismissal that day the little dictators will remember when they’re 20 or 30 or 40.
GOD DAMNIT all to hell.
Let’s go to the fucking zoo so I can feel like a good mom and get re-engaged in my job. I promise I won’t play Candy Crush the whole time.
I had a nice vacation. It was fun while it lasted. In my head.