This past Sunday, Anson was getting a little nervous about being behind on some of the freelance stuff he’s doing. He’s behind because he’s spent more time attending to me rather than work over the past week. Anson’s been happy to do it and done a stellar job, dark circled-eyes notwithstanding. Still, there are projects to be taken care of that only he can do. So I volunteered to take Roan out in the morning, giving our neighborhood a chance to finally see how a Sid Vicious T-Shirt paired with a pair of pink track pants can work (if worn with confidence), and to give Anson time to focus. It was a glorious few hours of very non-exerting walking about and even sitting around, then Roan and I returned home. I was whipped. This was bad news for myself because there was a birthday party I needed to get Roan to in one hour.
Anson saw my energy taking a dive and offered to be the birthday party parent. I accepted and then felt angry. I felt angry at Anson that I was going to feel guilty about not being able to take Roan. Clearly, this was a great reason to be angry with Anson. Bastard. So I started cleaning the house. (??) With the dishes done, I compartmentalized the task at hand:
1.Walk with Roan to the birthday party.
2.Sit for a few hours talking to parents that I really enjoy.
3.Catch a cab home.
Whatever. I could do that. Anson wasn’t going to get me to feel guilty. Not that he was trying. But I wasn’t going to feel guilty. Do you know why? It is because I can do it by myself, and somehow I haven’t moved beyond that developmental stage where I have to prove it.
I let Anson know my intentions, and he furrowed his brow, summoned his most “I’m the boss of you” voice he could and tried to tell me “no”. We all know what happens when you tell a two-year-old “no”. Yes, I dug in, and I got my way and I took Roan to the birthday party.
It’s a short walk, maybe half of a mile. I arrived a little glassy-eyed, but intact and sort of giddy from exhaustion. I sat by one of my favorite mothers of all time, and told her about my day. She looked at me, not impressed. “So, why didn’t you just call me and ask me to bring him?”
That is a very good question. The reason is because I fear I may have turned into one of those mothers/women that drive me crazy. This is evidenced by a voicemail I received from Laura, one of my best friends, on the day of my surgery. She asked if she could do something, and that I should feel free to ask for anything. After a long pause she added, “Who am I kidding? It isn’t like you’re going to call me and ask me to clean your bathroom”. True. I wouldn’t have – then – but Laura, I’ve had an epiphany. I’m going to start asking for help when I need it, because clearly I cannot do it all by myself. So even though you’re newly pregnant, a little tired and a lot nauseous, will you come and clean my bathroom?
I suppose next I work on my timing.