Well,
hell has officially frozen over — a small child has been left in my care and
it’s just dawning on me that I am literally responsible for her for the rest of
my life. In the beginning, after
accepting the horrific physical ailments I was left to overcome, I
started to settle into this parenting thing I’d heard of. I had acquired virtually no parenting skills, nor had I picked up any tips throughout the duration of my life, so I was very
much going in blind. All I had in my
arsenal was a series of beliefs I had developed while single.
First
and foremost: I Am Not Going To Let A Child Keep Me From Living My Life!
As
an adolescent, I would scoff at sad women wrestling with strollers on busy city
streets. I felt sorry for them and thought
to myself, “I will never let having a baby keep me from living my life and
having a good time.” This seemed like a
reasonable and achievable ideal but I’m sad to say I’ve fallen short. It’s unclear whether I’ll be able to overcome
my current obstacles or if I should just get a Kate Plus 8 haircut and throw in
the towel.
To
be fair, things started off wonderfully.
Within a week of having Perfect Daughter ripped from my abdomen, I was
sauntering over to Target to pick up a few things I needed. In the beginning, I took Perfect Daughter
with me everywhere. If she was sleeping
and someone commented on what a good child she was, I took full responsibility
as though I had already imparted some sort of parental wisdom onto her — when, in
all reality, the smaller the baby, the more they sleep. Regardless, I felt pretty proud of myself for
all I had accomplished. It could not
have been easier and I was wondering what all the fuss was about. Perhaps it was the pain meds talking, but I
started calling all my friends and telling them to go ahead and have babies
because it was easy As Fuck. Perfect
Daughter and I were living life to the fullest.
We went shopping, we went for walks, we cooked dinners, we napped. It was glorious.
From
there, things devolved into total pandemonium.
The thing about fatigue is that at first it’s cute — you have an extra
little buzz going as you move through your day and it’s just the kick in the
rear that you needed. After two weeks,
you’re wired but it’s kind of nice because you feel sort of high and you
realize you can survive solely on cigarettes and espresso and you start to feel
very European. After a month you realize
that having a baby was a huge mistake and you would complain to your friends
about it but you no longer have time to talk to them nor are you able to shower
or get dressed. One day while I was
sitting in my apartment, covered in my own filth and trying to figure out how
to sleep and eat at the same time, I wondered how things had unraveled to such
a degree.
Then
I returned to work. And all hell broke
loose. On day one I was struck with the
realization that in order to get my kid to childcare and myself to work on time,
I’d need to wake up at 5:30 a.m. I’m
someone who has historically stayed out until 5:30 a.m. In Chicago, there are 2 a.m. bars and 4 a.m. bars
and on Saturday everything is open an hour later so 5:30 a.m. is typically when
you get in a cab with your friends and go looking for drugs. Nowadays, 5:30 a.m. is dedicated to the
extraction of milk from my bosom, assembling the gajillions of baby accoutrements
required for day care, feeding and dressing child, feeding and dressing myself
and then inevitably realizing that I’m running late and have forgotten a
multitude of steps that needed to be accomplished. Most mornings I realize that I’m a horrible
failure by around 6 a.m. At that point,
there’s no hope in trying to save the day so I just start looking for french
fries and counting down the hours until it’s bedtime again.
As
if I didn’t have enough on my plate, my hateful “friends” eventually started
inviting me to do things. It was a huge
slap in the face and I was furious.
My
Friend Josh: Hey lady! I’m going to be
in town next week. Would love to get
together for dinner!
Me:
Oh, that’s out of the question. Perfect
Daughter goes to bed at 7 p.m.
Josh:
No, I totally get it. I’m happy to come
to your apartment instead of us going out to a restaurant.
Me:
I don’t know if you heard me. I get home
at 6 p.m. and she goes to bed at 7 p.m.
Josh:
Riiight. I guess I just thought we could
have a little nosh and catch up.
Me:
Catch up? CATCH UP?! I AM TRYING TO RAISE A PERFECT DAUGHTER,
JOSH! I DON’T THINK YOU’RE GETTING
IT. Are you aware that babies need 10-12
hours of sleep each night and that perfect daughter wakes up several times over
the course of each evening meaning I never know exactly how much sleep I’m
going to get? I don’t know if you’re
aware, JOSH, but I have to wake up at 5:30 a.m. every morning. FIVE-THIRTY!
Literally no one in the course of history has had to wake up as early as
I have to wake up every morning so I would really appreciate it if you could
respect that.
Josh:
Totally, I just…
Me:
I don’t think you’re getting it, JOSH. I
am a mother…A MOTHER! I’m SORRY if I’m
trying to put my daughter first. I’m
sorry if studies have shown that lack of sleep leads to a weakened immune
system thereby making it more difficult to retain certain lessons throughout
the school day making it harder to get into a good college which makes it more
difficult to be gainfully employed which then leads to a higher mortality
rate. DO YOU WANT PERFECT DAUGHTER TO
DIE, JOSH?!
Josh:
I’m confused. Is your six-month-old in
school?
Me:
THAT’S NOT THE POINT! GOD, YOU JUST DON’T
GET IT BECAUSE YOU’RE NOT A PARENT, JOSH!
Here’s
the thing. I have become unreasonably
obsessed with my child. I no longer live
my life or do things that don’t involve teaching my child some sort of
monumental life lesson. This shouldn’t
really be all that surprising. I’m a horrible alcoholic with a bad attitude so it was safe to assume childbirth was going
to go one of two ways: 1) I was going to reject the fetus and expect it to
make it on its own; or 2) I was going to become overbearing and protective of
the most Perfect Daughter in the world, readjust my schedule in order to
accommodate her flawless life, and reject all things that didn’t support the
betterment of her journey to be the most well-rounded, well-adjusted,
brilliant, supportive, unblemished, curious, healthy Perfect Daughter in the
world. It’s safe to say I’ve fallen into
the second category.
I’m
not sure how I let this happen. I barely
had a social life to begin with. I have
had incredibly unreasonable excuses every time someone asks me why I can’t
leave my house and the sad part is, I literally believe myself when I’m
talking.
Hateful
Friend #1: Hey, we’re all driving to Santa Barbara this weekend. Do you wanna come?
Me:
Perfect Daughter doesn’t really like being in a car for long periods of time.
Hateful
Friend #2: Yo! I’m in your neighborhood
and thought we could go for a walk.
Me:
Ya know, I’d love to but Perfect Daughter isn’t feeling well.
Hateful
Husband: Sex?
Me:
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! I’M EXHAUSTED, YOU MONSTER!
I’m
a shell of my former self. After a mere
seven months, I have removed everything in my path that does not immediately
fulfill some part of Perfect Daughter’s life.
So I tried to think back to that surly twenty-something that was
literally pushing pregnant women over in the street and I realized that that
woman was just as ill-informed. I
suppose this is what Oprah refers to as “balance.” Currently I have none. I’m trying to find that cushy spot between
daily drinker and pathetic shut-in. I’m
sure it’s best to start small. Husband
and I have a date on Friday night. We
hired something called a babysitter.
From what I understand that’s a person who watches your baby while you
go try to save your marriage. To be
honest, this entire experiment is already causing me a lot of anxiety. But Perfect Daughter needs to buck the fuck
up and I need to be awake past 9 p.m.
Turns out it’s slightly difficult to make no changes to your life once a
baby arrives.
There
are a few things that will likely never return like going on a last minute
trip, staying up until 4 a.m., and the suppleness of my vagina. But there are lots of new things that are fun
in a different way like watching your daughter grow into a person who can run
errands for you and teaching someone to swear.
It’s a give and take really. My
life will never be the same. But I don’t
have to die in the transition.
Twenty-something me was fun and she made some good points. Sure she drank to blackout proportions, slept
with strangers, and judged her elders.
But she knew that you could still be a fun-loving and effective person
even if you never showered. I love her
for teaching me that.
