I woke up this morning at 5:25 a.m. when my alarm clock went off. At 5:27 a.m., my husband got up to pee. I stayed in bed and contemplated how much I hate the sound of him peeing. About how much it irritates the shit out of me the way he's obsessed with the toilet in our bathroom, and will stand next to it for no fewer than five minutes every time he flushes it rather than just FIXING IT and being done with it. About how everything he's done for the past week has made me want to hit him over the head with a cast iron skillet, cartoon-style.
It's not him. It's me.
Correction--it's not me, either. It's February.
February!
I don't like myself, either. Last night, the toddler did what non-talkers do instead of saying "no thank you, mother, I don't particularly desire to be held at this moment"--meaning he clawed me in the face and put a nice scratch on my upper lip. It doesn't look like the scratch of a non-talking toddler, it looks like herpes. And I have a healing zit mere centimeters from that spot, so it really looks like herpes. And I need a haircut. And I'm pasty. And dry. And I feel fat as hell. I made it through the workday without sugar, but then I came home and had a Tootsie Pop (thanks, Bob) and 170 calories' worth of Dove bar.
I don't like my kids. We have no babysitters, period, so our opportunities to coexist as adults with any interest in one another are rare and far between. I was thinking tonight what a cold, lonely, "you're on your own" sort of world parenting is in this society of ours, and how if we could just get one evening a week alone without our children, our outlook on the world (and certainly each other) might improve exponentially. I thought about how relaxed and calm our lives would be if we didn't have children--we'd probably both hit the gym on our way home from work, then come home refreshed and rejuvenated, ready to hit the shower, come out clean, and spend a quiet evening cooking up a fabulous dinner together, which we would eat leisurely either in front of the tv (adult programming, not Nick Jr.) or in a dimly-lit dining room. Or in bed. Whatever. You know, like we used to do, when the older child was at his biological father's house and before we decided to spawn one of our own. And so clear was this image of the perfect evening, so simple, so brilliant, in my head, I damn near wept over it.
Then I walked in the house and saw the toddler, butt in the air, attempting to pick up his binky from the floor using only his mouth. And then I remembered how damned sweet and precious and cute he is, and his older brother too. And then I felt guilty. And descended further into my downward spiral of self-loathing.
I found a new food blog today. I'd be in love if not for the fact this blogger also lives in NYC, also doesn't appear to have a full (or part) time job aside from blogging, and has ample time to create some of the most delicious looking things I've seen this side of Dean and Deluca. What the hell? I thought people in NYC lived in tiny little shitheap apartments with $5000 a month rent and kitchens the size of the one in Barbie's townhouse. Apparently they all have better kitchens than even mine, have more gadgets than I will ever own (this one has her own cherry pitter), and have more free time and disposable income than I will ever have, ever ever ever. She probably has a nanny, too.
Bitch.
Oh, February, you suck so bad. When will you end (don't anyone say "16 days" or I'll take you hostage, swear to God) and release me from your frozen grasp? When will you allow my eyes to see daylight once again? Every year I swear I won't make it through another winter, and every year, I do...but it keeps getting harder.
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