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Stay at Home Madwoman in the Attic

Stay at Home Madwoman in the Attic

Mr. Right-Click has been watching a documentary on the hard core punk movement–“which I LIVED THROUGH”–and has taken to breaking into improvised punk riffs on the fly. Last night, I was greeted by a naked air guitar performance of a song that went a little something like this:

We need to . . .

We need to . . .

And so it begins, the negotiations for another baby. Sigh.

Pregnancy was very difficult for me. And though I am very glad I did it, and adore my son, the thought of three months sitting on the floor of the shower, nauseated and wanting to die just doesn’t sound very appealing to me right now. And then after that, the reverse claustrophobia that occurs from your innards being reshaped to accommodate the size of the baby–do you know what the inside of a pregnant woman looks like? Be glad if you don’t. Ribs shouldn’t be part of your throat, in my opinion.

It seems like we’ve only just worked things out with Mini and the sleeping issue. Can I face starting that process over again? And what about when I’m sleep deprived and trying to deal with Mini, who is now in the get-into-everything-climb-on-everything phase?

But the main issue is the lack of control. I am a control-freak, and your ability to control things when you have a kid goes down exponentially. Add another–and what if it’s another boy!–and I don’t even want to think about what could happen. I don’t want to be a control-freak mom (I have watched enough of our friends Jon & Kate to know that much), but oh smashed goldfish in my carpet! And wet graham crackers smeared like spackling all over the couch?! YUCK.

I had lunch with another mom of a toddler this week at Soup Plantation, which is not one of my favorite restaurants, but it is one of the better choices for those faced with wrangling two toddlers while dining: kids under two are free, and they can keep going back until they find something they like. And there’s always a bunch of fried and/or cheese-covered bread products, which are the glue that keeps Mini and the high chair together. The food is not good, but it doesn’t matter because I don’t have enough time to eat it between trying to get Mini to eat and convincing him that the large concourse filled with people carrying hot food is not a thoroughfare.

I think–no, I know–that we are entering into that time period where we should probably not go to restaurants at all. We are at the point with Mini that would elicit a snide comment (hushed, of course, because I am a chickenshit) from a former incarnation of myself if faced with dining next to us at a restaurant. I would always think, “Control your children, madam (or sir),” as if this were such an easy task. Or I would think, “why even go to restaurants at all when you have kids?” Ahh, the simplistic views of a dining singleton!

Why go to restaurants? Good question. I have to assume it’s to break things up. It’s hard to get a babysitter on weekends, and sometimes you want to go out to eat. And during the work week, Stay-at-Home-Moms are faced with a very long day without something to break it up.

So sometimes I go even when I have to endure the inevitable trouble it incites. The server at Soup Plantation–perhaps spurred by our table’s periodic shrieks of joy and wonder at stacking grapes in bowls–kept coming over and asking, “Do you guys need anything?” I almost took her seriously. Like, “As a matter of fact, yeah, I need a break. Can you just deal with him for fifteen minutes?” Then I realized that couldn’t be what she was talking about. It must have been a veiled admonition, or waitress code for “will you people keep it down, and stop flinging cheese covered-foccacia on the floor!”

Whatever, I gave her a 50% tip.

Imagine what would have happened with another kid there? And all day at home with them? My god.

But then there are the times when I look at Mini and love him so much I think I am going to burst. And then I start thinking, “Well, pregnancy is only nine months. . .”

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