37 Years.
Today, I have lived for 37 years.
For whatever reason, it seems more significant than past birthdays. The 20’s blew by...some years I really had to stop and think to remember how old I was. Some years I forgot my birthday all together. Ultimately, after the first 10 years or so, chronology has little if nothing to do with maturity, so why bother? That being said, I do enjoy celebrating other people’s birthdays, if just to say, “We’re all really lucky you are here, and we’re friends. Cheers!” Though it’s nice when this sort of thing isn’t only said one day of the year. I also love chocolate cake and butter cream frosting. And it’s definitely nice if THIS sort of thing isn’t eaten only one day of the year.
So more than a third of my life has passed. I remember being twelve, when thinking of being twenty got my heart pounding. Thinking of being thirty was, well, terrifying. Hell, it would be the 21rst Century. Would we all still be alive? Would the earth still be here? I was a pretty morbid twelve year old. I would regularly scare the crap out of myself at night thinking of death, the universe and everything. Later, I would become a huge fan of Douglas Adams. I still occasionally will dive into eternity, but now for the thrill of it. It’s like a cosmic kick in the ass, a reminder that I am ALIVE. And that anything is possible. That the only thing holding me back is myself. And that, like everyone else, I embrace some of my limitations, consciously or not.
When I was still pregnant with my little bundle of potentiality, or BOP, as we called her back then, “Don’t Panic” became a sort of unconscious catchphrase. I was terrified of child birth, convinced that my heart would stop in the middle of labor, that my bad cholesterol would finally bite me in the ass and clog up every artery in one huge rebellious “fuck you”.
I had preclampsia, and tendonitis in both ankles, which made walking about as appealing a prospect as being pounded with a spiked mallet. And about as painful. So my fears were not unfounded. Unreasonable? Absolutely. Didn’t matter. I was going to die in childbirth.
So, of course, when I was eventually induced early because of the preclampsia, that wonderful part of myself that always kicks in when I am beyond fear kicked in. Labor lasted all of 7 hours.
I just escaped a c-section because of my wonderful, awesome OB/GYN. I touched the little one’s head before she came into the world. And then, there she was. Tiny, red and purple, with such an intense, serious, look in her huge fathomless eyes as we looked at each other for the first time. That gaze was a challenge.
It’s still a challenge. There is little time in the day for anything but the Impling. I hardly ever see my husband, my partner, my best friend. He is on call today.
Rant alert.
Now, this is my life. Washing the dishes. Over and over. Cleaning the floor. Cleaning the bathroom. Sweeping the floor. Scraping food off the floor. Wiping marker scribbles off the floor. And the tablecloth. And the Impling. Loads of laundry. Picking shit up off the floor. More laundry. Sweeping. Dusting. Shredding junkmail. On special days, I get the added bonus of taking out the trash and recycling. Then I go to bed, get up when the Impling begins pounding on her door at 6:30 (because, of course I’m the ONLY ONE who can go into her when she wakes up...just like I am the ONLY ONE who can change a FUCKING DIAPER and the ONLY ONE who can get her breakfast lunch and dinner, and the ONLY ONE who can watch her take a bath instead of having oh, just FIVE FUCKING MINUTES to myself) and it all starts again.
The fucking wonder of life. I hate this apartment. I hate the FUCKING CLUTTER that seems to follow us wherever we go. Like for the past 12 years. I want to just BURN it. Fuck shredding. Fuck sorting. Just pile the fucking god sucking books and files and old mail that will NEVER be opened in a heap in the parking lot, douse it with the rest of the bottle of vodka neither of us will ever drink, and FLAME the mother fucking lot of it.
Now I have the wonderful opportunity to read to the Impling again. From the SAME FUCKING BOOKS we’ve read oh, how many hundreds of times? And listen to the SAME FUCKING MUSIC.
No time to practice. No time to paint. Or write. Or daydream. Or have a soak in the tub. Or spend an entire night reading a book, or playing a game, or watching stupid movies. Because I have to be in bed early. Because in the morning, once again, I’ll be scraping food off the floor.
Fuck motherhood.
Ah, the annual birthday rant about life's gross transgression of the 3rd major irrational belief*:
"Conditions under which I live must get arranged so that I get practically everything I want comfortably, quickly, and easily, and get virtually nothing that I don't want."
It's not so much to ask for, is it? And it's my birthday, damn it!
And now, back to reality.
The day has been rich in a bittersweet way. My sister and her husband came to visit and brought a cake from my favorite bakery. Mom and Dad came as well, and I had Happy Birthday sung to me in Dutch from my family in New Jersey. My brother called from Hawaii to chat. I trashpicked (yes I still trashpick...old habits die hard) a fun, gaudy little marbletop pedestal table.
More importantly, the Impling triumphed over the stairs today, walking up and down with only one hand on my jeans. She had a blast plastering chocolate all over her face, and successfully transformed her rice bowl into a hat (luckily after she finished eating). Through it all, I felt K's absence. Hearing his voice on the phone as I put the peanut to bed was the best part of my day, and for the first time in many days, I felt happy.
For whatever reason, it seems more significant than past birthdays. The 20’s blew by...some years I really had to stop and think to remember how old I was. Some years I forgot my birthday all together. Ultimately, after the first 10 years or so, chronology has little if nothing to do with maturity, so why bother? That being said, I do enjoy celebrating other people’s birthdays, if just to say, “We’re all really lucky you are here, and we’re friends. Cheers!” Though it’s nice when this sort of thing isn’t only said one day of the year. I also love chocolate cake and butter cream frosting. And it’s definitely nice if THIS sort of thing isn’t eaten only one day of the year.
So more than a third of my life has passed. I remember being twelve, when thinking of being twenty got my heart pounding. Thinking of being thirty was, well, terrifying. Hell, it would be the 21rst Century. Would we all still be alive? Would the earth still be here? I was a pretty morbid twelve year old. I would regularly scare the crap out of myself at night thinking of death, the universe and everything. Later, I would become a huge fan of Douglas Adams. I still occasionally will dive into eternity, but now for the thrill of it. It’s like a cosmic kick in the ass, a reminder that I am ALIVE. And that anything is possible. That the only thing holding me back is myself. And that, like everyone else, I embrace some of my limitations, consciously or not.
When I was still pregnant with my little bundle of potentiality, or BOP, as we called her back then, “Don’t Panic” became a sort of unconscious catchphrase. I was terrified of child birth, convinced that my heart would stop in the middle of labor, that my bad cholesterol would finally bite me in the ass and clog up every artery in one huge rebellious “fuck you”.
I had preclampsia, and tendonitis in both ankles, which made walking about as appealing a prospect as being pounded with a spiked mallet. And about as painful. So my fears were not unfounded. Unreasonable? Absolutely. Didn’t matter. I was going to die in childbirth.
So, of course, when I was eventually induced early because of the preclampsia, that wonderful part of myself that always kicks in when I am beyond fear kicked in. Labor lasted all of 7 hours.
I just escaped a c-section because of my wonderful, awesome OB/GYN. I touched the little one’s head before she came into the world. And then, there she was. Tiny, red and purple, with such an intense, serious, look in her huge fathomless eyes as we looked at each other for the first time. That gaze was a challenge.
It’s still a challenge. There is little time in the day for anything but the Impling. I hardly ever see my husband, my partner, my best friend. He is on call today.
Rant alert.
Now, this is my life. Washing the dishes. Over and over. Cleaning the floor. Cleaning the bathroom. Sweeping the floor. Scraping food off the floor. Wiping marker scribbles off the floor. And the tablecloth. And the Impling. Loads of laundry. Picking shit up off the floor. More laundry. Sweeping. Dusting. Shredding junkmail. On special days, I get the added bonus of taking out the trash and recycling. Then I go to bed, get up when the Impling begins pounding on her door at 6:30 (because, of course I’m the ONLY ONE who can go into her when she wakes up...just like I am the ONLY ONE who can change a FUCKING DIAPER and the ONLY ONE who can get her breakfast lunch and dinner, and the ONLY ONE who can watch her take a bath instead of having oh, just FIVE FUCKING MINUTES to myself) and it all starts again.
The fucking wonder of life. I hate this apartment. I hate the FUCKING CLUTTER that seems to follow us wherever we go. Like for the past 12 years. I want to just BURN it. Fuck shredding. Fuck sorting. Just pile the fucking god sucking books and files and old mail that will NEVER be opened in a heap in the parking lot, douse it with the rest of the bottle of vodka neither of us will ever drink, and FLAME the mother fucking lot of it.
Now I have the wonderful opportunity to read to the Impling again. From the SAME FUCKING BOOKS we’ve read oh, how many hundreds of times? And listen to the SAME FUCKING MUSIC.
No time to practice. No time to paint. Or write. Or daydream. Or have a soak in the tub. Or spend an entire night reading a book, or playing a game, or watching stupid movies. Because I have to be in bed early. Because in the morning, once again, I’ll be scraping food off the floor.
Fuck motherhood.
Ah, the annual birthday rant about life's gross transgression of the 3rd major irrational belief*:
"Conditions under which I live must get arranged so that I get practically everything I want comfortably, quickly, and easily, and get virtually nothing that I don't want."
It's not so much to ask for, is it? And it's my birthday, damn it!
And now, back to reality.
The day has been rich in a bittersweet way. My sister and her husband came to visit and brought a cake from my favorite bakery. Mom and Dad came as well, and I had Happy Birthday sung to me in Dutch from my family in New Jersey. My brother called from Hawaii to chat. I trashpicked (yes I still trashpick...old habits die hard) a fun, gaudy little marbletop pedestal table.
More importantly, the Impling triumphed over the stairs today, walking up and down with only one hand on my jeans. She had a blast plastering chocolate all over her face, and successfully transformed her rice bowl into a hat (luckily after she finished eating). Through it all, I felt K's absence. Hearing his voice on the phone as I put the peanut to bed was the best part of my day, and for the first time in many days, I felt happy.
For now, it is enough.
* FYI The other two major irrational beliefs:
1. I must do well and win approval or else I rate as a rotten person. (After this post, you see how much I'm concerned with this one)
2. Others must treat me considerately and kindly, in precisely the way I want them to treat me; if they don't, society and the universe should severely blame, damn, and punish them for their inconsiderateness. ( I LOVE this one. It always makes me smile.)
Source: Albert Ellis and Russell Grieger: Handbook of Rational-Emotive Therapy. New York: Springer, 1977.
* FYI The other two major irrational beliefs:
1. I must do well and win approval or else I rate as a rotten person. (After this post, you see how much I'm concerned with this one)
2. Others must treat me considerately and kindly, in precisely the way I want them to treat me; if they don't, society and the universe should severely blame, damn, and punish them for their inconsiderateness. ( I LOVE this one. It always makes me smile.)
Source: Albert Ellis and Russell Grieger: Handbook of Rational-Emotive Therapy. New York: Springer, 1977.
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