Someday, I’m going to be the one that says, Evaaaan, how come you never knee me in the groin anymore? Why? Why? Cuddle! Cuddle!
And he’ll roll his eyes and say Ma, you really need to get a grip. I’m taking the car. Seeya.
After almost two weeks of blocked sinuses, wracking coughs, blazing headaches and nonstop Pixar, I'm starting to emerge from the grip of the Norwalk virus. And/or Whooping Cough. Bubonic Norwhoop. Thanks to the constant hum of the New & Improved Mother (the televisionary big black box) we’re going to hell. And Lightning McQueen will take us there.
My gorgeousness these days is positively blinding. Nose smeared with Evan’s Zincofax (pasty-white butt salve, for the uninitiated), hair in a near-dreadlocked state, eyes red and bleary. And it all pales in comparison to the neverending stream of curses and complaints. I am pinched and bitchy. Everything sucks.
Evan crawls all over me, tugs at me. I snap at him and shake him off, resenting him for needing me when all I want is to be alone. I feel so selfish. I want my body back, free of strains and twitches and hormones. I want my time back, my job, my clicky shoes, my autonomy. I want to have that glistening, polished feeling. I don’t want to buy unsweetened cheerios anymore because unsweetened cheerios suck. I want salt on my eggs, and I don’t want to share them with anyone.
I’m bummed because someone found some random, ancient Japanese formula that predicts the gender of your baby based on the month of conception and your age, and it says boys.
It was right for Evan, they say. I knew it, it’s all boys. And something in me says Yep, you know it too. You're full of jiggers. In the gestational sense. Yeah, yeah. All that’s important is that they’re healthy. But what about striped tights and pigtails? I’m supposed to have some, dammit.
We’re already over-quota. On the twins' birthday, I'm having my legs medically fused together. And for the rest of my life our house will be one big sausage party, all hockey games and fishing trips. I’ll be all alone in my femaleness, pining for idiotic things like prom dresses and lip gloss and tampons. I want a Sadie. A Molly. A Juniper. I lust for them, for their quirky leggings under flouncy skirts and long hair and teensy flared jeans and peasant tops. Shallow and irrational, yes. But my brain can’t accept that I might be deprived. I’m supposed to be the mother of a daughter. It’s not fair.
Guilt that I shake off my son, delicious and scruffy and sweet. He’s going to be all gone soon, replaced by someone who’s too cool and too grown-up to need his mother. These are precious days, I know. But I can’t seem to drum up the selflessness and energy and attention he needs. Not when I look and feel like Jabba the Hutt.
Guilt that I’m not myself. That I’m so ineffective, so lacking in patience, answering his whines with whines. Guilt that I have the nerve to complain about the prospect of a houseful of boys when there are people out there struggling to conceive, struggling with hospitalized kids and loss and grief. Guilt that I have family closeby who do everything they can to help when plenty of young families are marooned.
I guess I’m just tapped. Aside from Croupgate 2006, this is the worst episode of plague we’ve suffered since Evan’s birth. You all know, right? How debilitating is it to be sick and to have to look after anyone other than yourself. How much worse it gets when you don’t sleep. And how much more self-pity you indulge on your blog, soon to be renamed www.poorkate.com, when you’re pregnant times two.