People have always said that I'm a very maternal person. I used to take that as a compliment. I mean, what's wrong with being maternal?
I'll tell you what's wrong with it: having a single weekend to yourself in ten years and missing your family halfway through it. What's up with that?
The signs weren't clear at first. My trip to the art gallery yesterday was anything but child-oriented. By today, however, it was becoming obvious that I long for the chaos that is my children's company. First, I went with Astarte and co. to the maul. While there, I spent a great deal of my time chatting with moms and their little boys. You'd think that this weekend, of all weekends, I might spray any approaching child-carrying parent with pepper spray and run (waddle) away as quickly as possible. Instead, I actually... Oh, this is embarrassing... engaged them in conversation.
I hang my head in shame.
Also, I had to force myself to go into any store that wasn't child-centered. I first made a beeline to The Children's Place, then quickly realized my slip-up and got the hell out of there. Next, I found myself checking out a Gap outlet. That is, until it dawned on me that it was Gap and not Gap Kids or Baby Gap, which caused me to immediately lose all interest and walk right by.
After the maul, Astarte and I went on a coffee and book browsing excursion. Go ahead: ask me what I did. Well, not only did I thoroughly check out the children's book section, but I ended up buying the gremlins each a magazine and Geekster a book where the hero is a dad (and I think the baby is a grim reaper, but I digress...)
Oh, yeah. As an afterthough I bought myself a magazine, too. A parenting magazine. I spent a good half hour at my parents' place later reading this thing.
Not to mention that my poor dog has been babied like nobody's business. I can now relate to women who don't have children and instead treat their dogs like six-month-olds. The poor thing has been babbled to, picked up and carried around and even brought to my parents' place for a playdate with their dog twice in less than twenty-four hours.
I am an embarrassment to overworked, burned-out mothers everywhere. I have failed us all.
I won't even tell you how excited I am that they're coming home tomorrow. I won't and you can't make me do it.
I'll tell you what's wrong with it: having a single weekend to yourself in ten years and missing your family halfway through it. What's up with that?
The signs weren't clear at first. My trip to the art gallery yesterday was anything but child-oriented. By today, however, it was becoming obvious that I long for the chaos that is my children's company. First, I went with Astarte and co. to the maul. While there, I spent a great deal of my time chatting with moms and their little boys. You'd think that this weekend, of all weekends, I might spray any approaching child-carrying parent with pepper spray and run (waddle) away as quickly as possible. Instead, I actually... Oh, this is embarrassing... engaged them in conversation.
I hang my head in shame.
Also, I had to force myself to go into any store that wasn't child-centered. I first made a beeline to The Children's Place, then quickly realized my slip-up and got the hell out of there. Next, I found myself checking out a Gap outlet. That is, until it dawned on me that it was Gap and not Gap Kids or Baby Gap, which caused me to immediately lose all interest and walk right by.
After the maul, Astarte and I went on a coffee and book browsing excursion. Go ahead: ask me what I did. Well, not only did I thoroughly check out the children's book section, but I ended up buying the gremlins each a magazine and Geekster a book where the hero is a dad (and I think the baby is a grim reaper, but I digress...)
Oh, yeah. As an afterthough I bought myself a magazine, too. A parenting magazine. I spent a good half hour at my parents' place later reading this thing.
Not to mention that my poor dog has been babied like nobody's business. I can now relate to women who don't have children and instead treat their dogs like six-month-olds. The poor thing has been babbled to, picked up and carried around and even brought to my parents' place for a playdate with their dog twice in less than twenty-four hours.
I am an embarrassment to overworked, burned-out mothers everywhere. I have failed us all.
I won't even tell you how excited I am that they're coming home tomorrow. I won't and you can't make me do it.