I Bring These Goldfish in Peace

I spent my first weekend alone recently. It was lovely. I made a beautiful meal, watched some really good movies, slept, took a long hot shower, and successfully thought of absolutely nothing. I am fairly certain I had a neon vacancy sign right on my forehead. While I was on the road, I even took a picture of my speedometer because my little ass car actually got to 75. I am a suburban mother with a 35 mph limit for the most part. Sometimes, if I really feel like sticking it to the man me and the boy crank up the tunes during drop off at school. Nothing says rock star like The Wall blaring out in the daycare parking lot. The blacktop also makes you make some sweet peel out sounds as well. We feel like the Dukes, minus the confederate flag and Boss Hogg. But I digress. I got to “speed” this weekend. It was the bees knees.

So on the way home from my heavenly weekend I started chatting out loud about things that stress me. Certain members of what used to be my family haunt me every second of every day. Mistakes I have made in the past cross my mind now and then. I say mistakes lightly because I have almost no regrets or guilt about them. But being a good old fashioned broad with sensitive ideals, I actually feel badly for not feeling badly enough. Jesus Horatio Christ, being a woman is a shitstorm to begin with, why must the vaj come equpped with new and improved shame and guilt to boot?

Things I do feel guilty about. I pour big buckets of water over my toddlers head to rinse his hair. He has more hair than Elvis ever did, and he doesnt let me rinse it. That’s right. He doesnt let me. I already lost a battle and he is not even two years old. Wanna fight about it? So, I douse him. I also microwave a good deal of his dinner, I give him a little whores bath (pits and tits, you know how it goes) when I am too exhausted to really bathe him, and I don’t spend hours at a time reading to him and making homemade mom and son quilts while skipping through the tulips.

So I start to verbally apologize for these little short cuts I take in order to provide the big ticket items in his life. Affection, quality day care, top notch medical care for his delays, some of them being profound enough to warrant additional care. I sing to him, a lot. He loves music and cheers when he hears a live concert album. I know I am a great parent but nonetheless, I apologize while driving and I feel better.

Until I walk in the house and he comes to say hi. And by saying hi, I mean he rips my glasses off, smacks me in the face, pulls my hair, and then jumps over to Daddy. He does not accept my apology, which is fine, because now I am totally not sorry. He can suck it for all I care. We manage to share a bowl of goldfish crackers rather peacefully. The Goldfish Summit, as it’s called in our house. I start to feel sorry again. It’s time for bed, so I walk upstairs with him and he pats me on the back as if to say “you are a good egg, mom. I have a beatdown for you penciled in tomorrow, but right now, I like you. Not only are you the boldest force in my life, but you are also a vehicle which to transport me to my domain to sleep.” He kisses me on the lips with his pacifier handle, I wipe the snot off of his nose and apply some vicks to his chest. Seems like he is getting a cold. I turn on mom mode and give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek and hope he is well in the morning.

I wake up this morning, he is fine. I, on the other hand, have a cold. We discussed no germ warfare at the Goldfish Summit. DAMN HIM.



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