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Broke Wife, Big City
Like
walking to Mordor
By Aprill Brandon
If my social media feed is any indication, every single child in the
world had their last day of school last week.
Everyone, that is, except my son.
Who still has FOUR WEEKS LEFT TO GO.
Oh, that’s right. His last day doesn’t happen until mid-June. Because
our local schools hate parents. And summer. And sanity.
Of course, being that he’s in preschool, the demands placed on both
myself and my son are pretty low. So as much as I’m dying to have a
very strict summer schedule of absolutely nothing, the problem isn’t
that we have one more month of rigorous scholarly obligations (since
pretty much our only requirements are that we’re both wearing pants
when I drop him off). No, the problem is that I’m lucky enough to live
in a neighborhood that is within walking distance of my son’s school.
Nice, huh? Yeah, I thought so too. Back in September when I was naive
and happy and and hadn’t pulled out all my hair. Back before I realized
how exhausting it would be to also tote his toddler sister with us
every morning and afternoon.
Have you ever had to walk anywhere with a toddler? If so, you have my
deepest condolences. You are a superhero and don’t let anyone tell you
any different. If not, well, what’s the best yet nerdiest way I could
possibly explain it to you? It’s like...it’s like taking the journey to
Mordor every single day. And at this point in the year, I’ve turned
into Gollum in both looks and personality.
Or maybe that’s a bad analogy. Because those hobbits had it fairly
easy. For instance, they were able to leave the house. Just like that.
They only had to grab the one ring to rule them all and some snacks,
and BOOM. They were on their way.
Meanwhile, our journey begins long before we even open the door.
There’s the five-minute fight about why we have to brush our teeth and
another ten minutes trying to solve the mystery of why there is not a
single pair of matching shoes in the entire house and then, my
favorite, the daily wrestling with my 2-year-old to put on a fresh
Pull-Up while simultaneously arguing with her about why we should take
the stroller today. (An argument I lose. Every single day.)
I bet Gandalf never had to watch in exasperation as Frodo ran around
laughing maniacally with a diaper on his head.
Then, upon immediately exiting the house, I’m already being bombarded
with requests for second breakfast. But a second breakfast for the
world’s pickiest eater.
“Can I have a snack?”
“It’s eight o’clock in the morning.”
“BUT SNAAAAACK. I’M SOOOOO HUNGRY.”
“Fine. I think I have some ancient Teddy Grahams in my bag.”
“Which ones?”
“I don’t know. The ones shaped like Paw Patrol, I think.”
“NOOOOOO...not thoooooose!”
“They literally taste the same.”
“...*bursts into tears*...”
You know, I don’t remember Bilbo ever complaining that his stale bread
wasn’t bear-shaped.
And then there is the pace. In the time it took a fellowship of nine
people to cross all of Middle Earth, we are still within nine feet of
our porch. Because while we may not be battling orcs, there are
seasonal obstacles we must constantly overcome. For example, in the
fall, every single leaf that has fallen off a tree must be picked up,
examined and handed to me. And I must hold onto them FOR ETERNITY. In
the winter, there is snow. Snow that has to be picked up, kicked at,
sat in, licked and thrown. Spring brings flowers. Flowers that MUST be
picked regardless of the fact that they are the prized tulips of the
scary lady down the street who is definitely going to murder me if my
daughter picks one more from her garden. And late spring brings out the
bugs. The bugs that must be inspected. At bug level. Lying on the
ground. Then picking them up and accidentally squishing them, prompting
an exhaustive dialogue about what is death and where do things go when
they die.
Of course, this is all only if she’s in a good mood. If she’s in a bad
mood, say, because I won’t let her run out into oncoming traffic,
she’ll sit down and refuse to move. And when I pick her up, she hits me
in the face and kicks her shoes off.
I would gladly give up a finger to Smeagol, maybe even two, if just
once, ONCE, we could make the ten minute walk to preschool in ten
minutes.
Of course, the good mom in me, the one who realizes what a beautiful
and fleeting moment in time childhood really is, wants to relax and
just enjoy this time; to slow down on these daily walks through our
beautiful town with the two people I love most in the world and let it
all sink in.
But the human in me, the one who has a natural aversion to torture, is
internally screaming every curse word I know and is ready to burn down
the entire goddamn world because no one can be forced to move this slow
and not lose their mind. Especially considering that we have to turn
right back around and make the journey back. A journey back that takes
so long it could also easily be stretched across three three-hour
movies.
And worst of all is the knowledge that in the afternoon, we have to do
the whole thing over again.
So, yeah, those hobbits had it easy. Because once they finally returned
home, broken in mind, body and spirit, they didn’t also have to then
make dinner.
“BUT I HATE SPAGHETTI, MOMMA!”
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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