November 29, 2011
Italics story originally written, but not posted, 11/3/2011 --
Oops.
Two sessions of peeing on a stick later and here we are. Pregnant.
During the week, my alarm is set for 5:15am. I'm lucky if I get up by 5:45am. Chill for twenty, extrication station, write a list of all the crap I have to do, shower, dress, work. 4:30pm or 5 I scoot. Soon as I hit the front door at home I'm doing laundry, dishes, vacuuming, paying bills, cleaning cat boxes, putting crap away and whatever the hell else it is one does when one has shazz to do.
And I should be dancing for a bit of exercise, plucking my eyebrows or planning dinner (and sometimes I do do these things). I should be garnering some of the crap back that I used to have or chilling to a retarded reality TV show or reading the book I haven't read in months (and sometimes I do do these things). But mostly I'm not doing these things.
K-Dog gets home and there's so much to spew about.
He hasn't eaten and usually I have.
Imbalance.
By then it's time for me to hit the hay.
But usually I don't. Usually we stay up talking. Or he tries to go to bed when I do. Which never works.
And then the weekend dominates our time with Saturday work schedules, family obligations and "Fuck. We need food." Which has to be a joint effort or else we'd be living on cheese, rice and tillos.
I don't have time/patience/practicality/desire/ambition/motivation to add kids to the hectic mix.
We already feel off sinc. We already wonder where the time goes. We already have lists past due, obligations we're hounded for, difficulties in finding time for sex and a cigarette.
All I would be is one big bitch if I had a little person to care for, too.
It's 7:15pm and I'm still not done folding laundry or extricating the majority of it from the joke of a dryer we have here. I have completely foregone vacuuming, dishes, dinner and cat boxes in exchange for a few moments to rant. And I'd have NONE OF THIS if I had kids. Unless God grants maids and caretakers and fitness gurus upon the arrival of the stork, I'm not in.
It's hard enough being responsible for me, let alone someone else.
I get it, I get it. "I raised two kids by myself and somehow made it through." "I took on five kids and a part time job and put dinner on the table." "I adopted seven orphans and still had time to go ballroom dancing."
Whip-dee-fucking-doo for you.
(No, but seriously, I more than highly commend any mom and every dad that makes it through parenthood alive.)
It's just not for me.
I'm the girl that despises being rushed. I hate being told what to do. I hate feeling like I don't have options or an escape route. I don't like messes, fecal matter (it's enough having cats, while we're on that topic) or not being able to get into my car and go. When I want, where I want and however the hell I want. I like the heat jacked up when I'm cold, turned way down low when I'm sleeping and the windows open despite it all. I like peeing with the bathroom door wide open, eating a whole carton of cottage cheese and chips, dancing to Lady Gaga in my living room and disappearing for a weekend after fortifying the felines.
And I know it's selfish. I know it's one-sided.
For this, I'm guessing, I'm an ass.
But I've been living on my own for years. I've been making it that way without handouts or helpers or escorts or pedicures. No grocery carriers or nudging reminders. Before the fire, I was never late with a bill. If I didn't get up on time, shame on me. If I didn't come home at night, no one cared. My schedule, my off to bed early with an old book or out all night by myself or the world. If my shelves were bare but for mustard and booze, no one had a thing to say. There was no one telling me I'm doing something wrong, folding that incorrectly, whining about this or hurrying me for that. I have enough of that bullying, judgment, bossiness, bullshit from work -- the last thing I need is to come home to more of it.
My life as a hermit had its ups and had it downs.
I wouldn't trade K-Dog for the world, now, but it does make me realize how precious my freedom is. Wandering off to New York, escaping away to Paris, riding my bike for a whole day without a single obligation in the world save for the pots and pans from last night's poor attempt at midnight pancakes...
Now I can't find time to get winter worthy shoes. My walls are bare but for one picture. I fall asleep at my desk at work for lack of sleep.
I have a new job, a new home, a new man and barely a moment to make heads or tails of it all. What would I do with... a BABY?!
I guess Ziggy is going to washing a lot of dishes 'cause Momma can't live on Busch NA forever.