Valentine’s day, with a school-aged kid, is basically a test of patience. There is the torture of watching a younger elementary school child try to write out 25 cards, the drama and hurt feelings, the sheer mass of candy, and the logistics of trying to find a babysitter for a date night in an over-crowded restaurant (or just choosing to ignore the romantic aspects completely).
Lorelei is such a curious kid. She wants to know the hows, whys, whats, and wheres of everything. To an annoying degree. I don’t know why keys are shaped like that or how balloons are made. No, I cannot tell you the exact details of everything we are doing, going to do, or have done. I am not sure what year Obama was born.
Dear Lazy Mother in the Grocery Store,
I saw you.
I heard your kid whining for popsicles. I saw you reach into the freezer and ask which type.
I don’t trust birth.
There. I said it.
I feel like I’m supposed to be a good little half-hippie, trusting birth and bodies and earthmothergoddessblahblahblah.
Give a burned-out mother five minutes and a Google search bar and she’ll be told no fewer than a dozen times that she needs to practice some self-care. Self-care is seen as this magical cure-all for anxiety, stress, and all that bothers you in life. I’m pretty sure it cures athlete’s foot and eczema, too.
If you are anything like me, you have likely read about a kazillion birth stories since the moment you found out you were pregnant for the first time. I have read everything from accidental unassisted homebirths to hospital horror stories. From beautiful water births to straightforward c-sections. I don’t know that I have ready many details about preterm c-sections.
When something shitty happens, it is inevitable that someone is going to tell you to be grateful for whatever is less than shitty. I get it, I do. My imaginary memoir is titled, “Well, It Could Have Been Worse….” But sometimes I just want to wallow a little bit in the unfairness of things that are, well, unfuckingfair.