I Guess We Can’t Be Friends, But That’s Okay Because The Only Friend I Need Is Mrs. Meyer
I do understand the bewildering task of sorting out your pre-mom self from your post-mom self. I think it’s something that every parent struggles with, and there are a lot of sacrifices that you’ll end up making. For instance, my boobs look like someone popped them, and I read a lot less than I used to. My car is inexplicably sticky all of the time. In fact, pretty much everything my kid touches is inexplicably sticky all of the time. I went for six years before I could pee in privacy. (Thank you, Kindergarten!)
I feel like it used to be an eyeroll-worthy funny ha-ha joke: “Sorry I couldn’t put pants on today but I haven’t slept in three years”. Now, though, it’s been flipped: “Wow, you put pants on? Is your kid okay? Who was watching her while you navigated that button fly?”
Is it just me, or does all of this sound a little Hector-the-Projector-ish? Every time I read a sanctimonious tweet about how real moms don’t go clubbing anymore, I immediately think that whoever tweeted it out is really just kind of pissed that they couldn’t find a sitter. I have to believe that, because only a deluded person would think that watching the Hot Dog Dance for the fifth time in a day is more fun than having a night to yourself, whether it’s going clubbing or just recusing yourself from hearing about how your kid’s farts smell like peanut butter.
Cleaning is my clubbing, and I don’t even need to neglect my kid to do it. Because I am gifted with the ability to talk and wipe at the same time, I can carry on a conversation with her while I dust. Better yet, I refer to one of my other bullet points from my pregnancy pro list and make her do it with me, because why have kids if you don’t take advantage of the free labor?
This goes beyond me wanting my house to not smell like a turd sprinkled with Camembert and lit on fire. I also think my daughter should be able to grasp the idea of taking pride in where she lives. I don’t want her to be one of the kids that I met in college, weeping over the washing machine because they were out of knickers but never learned how to push the four buttons that would spit out clean ones.
Still, that’s something that’s applicable to just me and my kid and our house. It has honestly never entered my mind to visit someone’s home, give one flippity flapjack whether or not they keep it tidy, and then run home to write a snarky post about it on my blog.