|
|
 |
|
The views expressed on this page are soley
those of the author and do not
necessarily represent the views of County
News Online
|
 |
Broke Wife, Big City
The last days
of nowhere to be
By Aprill Brandon
I think there’s something wrong with my calendar. I looked at it this
morning and it said it was the end of July in the year of our Lord
2018.
Which is practically August.
Which is basically pre-autumn.
And that can’t possibly be right.
Because if that is right, that means my family is swiftly approaching
the last golden-tinged days of childhood where we have nothing to do
and nowhere to be. That our light-hearted existence of pure autonomy is
coming to an end. So, clearly, whoever is in charge of calendars (the
Mayans, or those arrogant Gregorian folks, or even the Moon in all her
lunar wisdom) messed up somewhere.
Because according to my internal calendar, my baby is still a baby and
preschool is still starting sometime in “the future,” and most
definitely not on the concrete date of September 4th. Which is why it
simply makes more sense that literally everything else in the world is
wrong and I am right.
Because I am not ready for this.
Seriously, I’ve known that preschool would be starting for only four
and a half years. What kind of psychopath can mentally and emotionally
prepare for that kind of thing in only half a decade? I mean, sure, I’m
assuming moms with names like Karen who have actual first aid kits in
their bathrooms probably can, but what about the rest of us normal moms
who use maxipads and duct tape in a pinch?
In my defense, it’s everyone else’s fault. They just let me leave the
hospital with a BABY.
TWICE.
And then, a few weeks later, my husband went back to work, both
grandmothers went back to their respective midwestern states, and we
were pretty much left to our own devices. My kids and I have been so
poorly supervised for so long, we basically live like old-timey hobos,
free to tramp around and come and go as we please, gleefully ignoring
the fundamental rules of society. Bathing, pants and normal voice
volume all optional.
But now we’re just expected to suddenly adhere to someone else’s
schedule? To be somewhere? On time? More than once? Like, a whole crap
ton of onces?
So, what? I’m now expected to wake my 4-year-old up every day to
achieve this Herculean task? Wake up the kid who, if he doesn’t get a
solid 11 hours every night, turns into a tiny Hulk? Ok, yeah, sure.
I’ll just amble on in there with a helmet and a plastic Captain America
shield and hope for the best then.
Oh god, and so I guess this means I also have to pack him a lunch or
something? Like, a normal all-American lunch? But he only eats beige
food. Plus, it takes him roughly 97 minutes to eat three beige-colored
crackers. And do I make him a well-rounded lunch full of fruits and
protein and, I don’t know, avocado toast, knowing full well this will
cause him to starve to death? Or do I pack him things I know he will
eat (animal crackers and tiny packets of butter I stole from semi-fancy
restaurants) but will probably result in some concerned phone calls?
BREAKFAST. I forgot about breakfast. Don’t get me wrong. I love making
breakfast. Big, full, diner-style breakfasts. Which, again, I’m happy
to make. Whenever the hell I get around to it.
Oof. Clothes. He’ll probably need to wear clothes, huh? Best case
scenario, they even match. At the very least, not pajamas. At the very
least least, not pajamas worn with cowboy boots and my bright pink
aviator sunglasses.
I suppose I’ll also be expected to wipe off the Groucho Marx eyebrows I
drew on his little sister with a marker for an absolutely perfect
Instagram photo before we drop him off.
Yeah, no. The calendar must be wrong. I’m not ready for real life. For
responsibility. For really loud alarm clocks.
For pants.
Looks like it’s time to start Googling train schedules so us three
hobos can find one to hop on.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
|
|
|
|
