I was on the bus on Thursday, and there was a woman with her son on the bus, too. He was maybe like 8 or 9 (or something. I have no idea how you tell these things). And it was rush hour, and it was crowded, and he was looking out the window and asking her about things, and she would respond, and I had a total mini panic attack. I realized Oh My God — someday, I will have to have REAL CONVERSATIONS with my son. I will have to answer questions. I will have to TALK to him. Now, it’s so easy — there is soooper cute incoherent babbling, and I pretend it something profound, and I respond. However, someday, I will have to really converse with him — and I don’t mean the 1,000 question phase of ages 3-5 or so, where you have to answer “why is the sky blue” (Thank you, Adler Planetarium, for preparing me with the answer!), and a million other “whys” after that, where I will probably eventually become more religious than I usually am and say “Because God said so.” And give him a cookie to distract him. I mean the part later, where he’s like a real person and I have to talk to him like a real person. Not just the hard questions like “What’s that guy doing with a sleeping bag and a bottle near the bus stop?” but just the day to day banter and chatter. OK, friends, I am now in training. Consider yourself warned. When next you see me, I will be all up in there with the chatter conversation-keeping-upping, instead of my usual grunts and glazed expression. Look out!
It’s not the liquor I miss….well, maybe it is March 7, 2009
This is a great piece from the New York Times about the responsibilities of being a mother. One responsibility in particular — the sobriety part. It’s kind of a buzz kill. My favorite is the last paragraph (which I will quote here, for those of you who don’t have time to follow the link on a beautiful Friday afternoon)
“So it’s not the alcohol I miss. It’s the immaturity. The selfishness. The wasted days frittered away recuperating from the wasted nights. It all turned around so quickly. I wasn’t prepared to be this person. A person who can clearly recall all the events of the night before. Who can be the designated driver. Who can go to a work party without apologizing the next day. This must be parenthood. I would toast this milestone, but I have pears to puree.”
I was actually just thinking to myself the other day that I would like to be depressed. And then I kicked myself — what? Why in the world would I like to be sad? I realized that it wasn’t the being sad part that I wanted, but rather the excuse to lie in bed under the covers and pamper myself. Once I realized that even if I were depressed, I would never be able to sit around feeling sorry for myself ever again because I have a small person to take care of, the allure of depression faded quickly. But being hungover accomplishes the same thing, with a much more fun cause. Plus there’s all that hangover food — Taco Bell and McDonalds that somehow doesn’t seem wrong. I ate a Quarter Pounder with cheese yesterday on my way home from a late program, and I decided that eating at McDonald’s is like having sex with your ex-boyfriend: you know you shouldn’t, but it feels so good. But, then immediately afterwards, the self-loathing begins.
But, I digress. If you have kids, read the article — I bet you’ll relate. Unless you were a real stick in the mud beforehand, too. If you don’t have kids, read the article — hopefully it will help you understand why I can’t make it to happy hour on a Tuesday, but you’ll understand that I really do want to. I’ll have a very small glass over some goldfish crackers in your honor.
