April 5, 2012
I have this really annoying fear of being lazy. It causes me to run myself ragged sometimes.
I remember when my kids were little, doing the stay-at-home-mom gig. I constantly felt lazy. I never felt like the weary, exhausted momma elbow-deep in diapers and tiny socks and public meltdowns. Yeah, I experienced all that, but for some reason I was convinced that it wasn't enough to qualify me as respectably busy. It was my own neurosis, I assure you. I have always felt that way. If I am not single-handedly moving mountains, then I am lazy.
I can chill on the weekends. Strangely enough, I can chill on rainy days, though I don't know why. I can chill if we have company, surprisingly. Before company, I go completely schizophrenic. Cleaning, bitching if what I previously cleaned gets messed up, bitching if I delegate jobs that get the half-ass treatment by poor, confused men who flinch at my unreachable standard. But after the company is here? I'm a lump.
On the weekdays, though. Different story. I don't have little ones to wake me up, yet I still obsessively set my alarm. Sometimes, my sleep cycle gets so screwed up that I will wake up with the alarm, stay up for about half an hour, and then collapse on the couch for another hour or so. That's when I start mentally beating myself up until I am finally able to pry my eyes open and stay awake. Sometimes, I go through a week or so of waking up every two hours on the dot all night long. Sometimes, Sarge or the kids will tell me they saw me asleep on the couch at 2 or 3 in the morning, sitting straight up, eyes half closed. Sarge woke up a few days ago at around 4 or so; I wasn't in the bed. He didn't know where I was. He woke up again at 6:30 and I was magically in the bed again. Of course, I don't remember this.
I think I am afraid I'm going to miss something while I am asleep. Because, you know, the middle of the night is when all the cool stuff happens.
Once I am finally awake, though, my head is a perpetual steam engine. Move, move, move. I do yoga. Run. If I don't feel like I've done enough, I'll hop on the elliptical until I am satisfied. Shower. Move, move, move. I know something has to be cleaned. I will find something. No dirty laundry? I'll start taking sheets off the bed. Vacuuming curtains. Baseboards behind the furniture. I start dinner around noon. I shit you not. It's sort of justified considering I work from 2 to 10pm. I can stop intermittently to stick something in the oven or check a boiling pot, but not long enough to cook a whole meal, so I try to get the bulk of it done before work. The boys help a lot. They have their own things they do. Andrew is my dish boy. Jake has the trash. He's supposed to do his bathroom, too, but he slacks on it. (For SHAME! I know you're reading this, dirtbag. Last I checked, there wasn't even any toilet paper in there. Dirtbag.)
You know, it's funny. My kids would do so much more if I asked them. Not only would they do it, they'd do it without batting an eye. And most of the time, they'll do it the minute I ask them. No complaining, no sighs of inconvenience. Nope, none of it. It's funny. I think that's why I don't. Ask them to, that is.
Well, and because Jake does a kickass impression of me. Sometimes, I am a miniature tyrannosaurus rex. He emphasizes the tiny arms and rage. And sometimes, I am a WWF pro wrestler, fearlessly throwing down the gauntlet to anyone who dares challenge my authority. And sometimes, he just puts shoes on his knees and walks around the living room barking orders.
Andrew has perfected the stare. That kid is beanpole, see. As tall as his Dad, easy. If I'm standing right next to him, I have to crank my neck all the way back just to look at him. And he stares directly down at me. With his goofy ass smile. And his little sunshine baby hazel eyes. I used to fall asleep on the couch singing "You Are My Sunshine" with that little monster sleeping on my chest and his thumb popped in his mouth. I used to dance around the living room with him giggling while I sang "Dance, Dance, Dance" from the Steve Miller Band. And now he's looking down at me? What does this have to do with this blog post? I swear I had a point. Damn it.
Oh right, I think it had something to do with me being a far too indulgent momma, with a propensity to still see my babies as babies.... until they pick me up, or get a crick in their neck from looking down at me, or tell me to get out of the way before I hurt myself when trying to reach stuff on the top shelf.
I think that was it. Yes. I'm sure of it.
I swear I don't cut their meat. Or wipe the boogies off their noses. I do straighten the decorative towels in their bathroom, though. That's how I noticed there isn't any toilet paper in their bathroom. I am now waiting to see how long it takes them to notice.
I'm fucking tired.
I'm gonna get a video of Jake's impressions of me. It'll totally go viral. He'll be a star. He'll be on Tosh.0. Someone will see him on TV and he'll be offered a starring role in Transformers 14. Then he can buy me and Sarge a house. He'll probably have to go to the Betty Ford Clinic because he got hooked on blow. But when he's out, he'll be a motivational speaker, so it will all work out in the end. Until he gets 10 years in the slammer for tax evasion. Then Sarge and I will have to sell our house to pay his court costs. That little dirtbag! He is soooo grounded......