One of my husband’s biggest complaints about his job is that he gets pestered all the time. Daily, HDHusband calls me with “now this happened” and “now someone wants this” and “dog ate my homework” and ” blah blah blah”.
Once, he said, “You don’t know how it feels!”
Alas, Tall One, I do.
I have a five-year-old boy who has a honing device anytime I am doing something for myself. ANYTHING. Five years of giving 24/7 and I’m feeling it kickin’ my ass.
Tonight, I left HDH in charge of Bug, and I ran (literally) upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom.
Running bath? Check.
Balt salts? Check.
Rolling Stone magazine? Check.
Engaging article about Gregg Allman and WTF about the Jonas Brothers (God, I’m old!)? Check.
Knock at the door? Check.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, Bug”.
“I have a question. Please open the door. I have a question.”
(me, opening the door, sighing, realizing this is it for the rest of the night)
“Daddy says you are wee-laxing. Are you wee-laxing?”
“I was. What’s your question?”
“If you eat a spider, does the spider come out of your ‘nis hole? This one right here?”
I put on my robe. I marked my Allman article. I sighed. I thought of that elusive vacation where it’s only me, my favorite book, some wine, and no alarm clock. Do mothers actually GET those trips? With my husband’s on-call schedule (every other night starting, um, now, at least for a year, again), it’s highly un-fucking-likely.
I am a married widow.
But for now, I’ll get back to reading that article probably not before my next issue of RS comes out. I am drinking wine, though.
Why yes, Brightside … I guess that will do for tonight.
EDIT:
“HDW?”
“Bug just said, ‘Daddy! You said Mommy was wee-laxing. She wasn’t wee-laxing at all!”