I’m going to admit something. Something that I have known for a while but have kept secret for quite some time now.
I am bored.
Not so much bored, as much as B O R E D. Like out of my fucking mind, write stupid nonsensical fish stories, bored. It’s not because I have nothing to do. I have plenty of things to do. I could list them in order of insignificance, but for purposes of brevity, I’ll skip it.
I’m not quite sure when it first hit me, but it’s been a creeping realization that has gradually gained momentum over time. I am reluctant to shout it from the roof tops for obvious reasons.
Most notably, no one wants to hear or really cares that I am bored, and who can blame them? “Oh to have such problems as to be a stay at home mom with nothing to do but feel sorry for yourself and all of the extra valuable time you get with your children that countless working mothers would kill for on any given day.”
I don’t want to hear that shit either. Who the fuck cares. I would kick my ass too if I was on the receiving end of that sorry ass rant.
This is not about my kids. It’s about me being unable to find any meaningful value in any of the day to day crap that doesn’t involve direct interaction with my children anymore. It never used to bother me. It was all just viewed as part of the job. Robotically replacing the toilet paper rolls, refilling the soap dispensers, wiping the dried spit tracks out of the sink that seem to regenerate at the speed of light the exact moment I turn my back to them, the endless pile of dishes (sigh), the laundry (wash, rinse, repeat times fucking infinity), meal planning, and by extension, grocery shopping, packing creative lunches that my children will actually eat day after day after day, packing snacks (healthy ones no less), sweeping the pile of toast crumbs up for the umpteenth time only to realize that it has been immediately replaced by a pile of macaroni and cheese that missed its mark, again.
And so on and so forth.
When all added up, it usually equals a busy and often very exhausting day, and maybe I should just be okay with that. I guess there’s a certain level of accomplishment and pride that comes with keeping busy and not just sitting around on my ass all day. Right?
I fully realize that these are not real problems, and that many of these tasks are not necessarily necessary. I get it. We could function just fine without a kleenex box. Regardless, it all suddenly feels like a colossal waste of time. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because much of what keeps me busy all day long could easily be delegated to a robot or anyone over the age of five.
I’m fairly certain there is a portion of my brain that has become completely nonfunctional as a direct result of disuse over the past few years. The rest of it functions at half capacity at best (Insert fish story reference here). For purposes of this argument, I tried to come up with a list of daily higher level cognitive functions that I routinely perform. Ten seconds in, I found myself desperately trying (and failing) to scrape a crusty booger off my kid’s bedroom wall.
I literally fixated on how to get it off. It can’t be that difficult. There has to be a way. It’s can’t stay on there forever, can it? What am I doing wrong? Should I Google it?
These are the questions I ask myself throughout the day. Among others, such as…
- Would my children survive if I didn’t cut the crust off their toast? Of course.
- Would they implode into a cloud of dust if I wasn’t a phone call away to bring their library books to school at the drop of a hat (the exact books that they forgot after being reminded of at least 3 times)? No.
- Would they contract a rare bacterial infection if I wasn’t present to remind them to wash their hands after every single visit to the bathroom? Probably not.
- Would my 7 year old daughter be better off if I wasn’t around 24/7 to assist in wiping her ass after taking a dump? Without a doubt.
She’s seven. And a half.
Simply put, it’s becoming a bit too convenient for everyone involved and I find myself reluctantly morphing into a complete and total bitch because of it. I can’t explain why I suddenly hate turtles. I just do. Nor can I explain why a teeny tiny portion of me suddenly finds it slightly obnoxious that my beloved husband continues to climb the corporate ladder, one accomplishment after another after another, for the sake and betterment of our family, while I’m at home obsessing over crusted-on wall snot. I should be grateful that I have been afforded the opportunity to be bored and virtually void of higher mental stimulation altogether. After all, this was a joint decision, mutually agreed upon by both parties after deep thought and examination of every variable involved. Ironically, it is also one that I continue to firmly stand behind (albeit in a non-cheerleader sort of way).
It all came to a head a few days ago when I picked my oldest child up from an afterschool activity. She hopped in and before even closing the door proclaimed in absolute shock and disgust, “Oh my gosh Mom! You need to clean out Dad’s car!”
Well now we’ve opened a can of fucking worms, haven’t we?
I have created a society of complete enablement. My 7 1/2 year old daughter does not know how to adequately wipe her own ass. My 9 year old daughter thinks it’s my job to clean out her dad’s disgusting excuse of a motorized vehicle. My 3 year old son has nonchalantly walked out of our bathroom more times than I would care to admit, proceeded to hand me his socks, and without making eye contact arrogantly walked away while stating the obvious, “Here Mom. I peed on my socks.”
The take home message is crystal clear. I am Cinderfuckingella. Worse yet, I have no one to blame but myself.
A few days ago, I overheard a woman, with misplaced bubbliness, offer the following wisdom to a disheveled mother who was clearly having a bad day, “The days seem long, but the years go fast.”
Thanks for the tip Nietzsche. Like I didn’t feel bad enough about myself already. Go fuck yourself.
Save the suggestions for the nonexistent suggestion box. I get it. I need to smile more. Not sweat the small stuff. Get a hobby. Guess what? You’re reading it. It’s my one thing. This ridiculous excuse of a blog forces me to form a series of full sentences that otherwise would not have been formed. It encourages me to spell words, use proper grammar and appropriate punctuation, sequence events in a logical manner regardless of the content (Insert stupid fish story reference here, again), and by extension ignites neurotransmitter activity in a the frontal cortex of my brain that would have otherwise turned to pudding months ago.
I don’t care what anybody says, the Scarecrow was a goddamn genius.
“I would dance and be merry,
Life would be a ding-a-derry,
If I only had a brain.”
I hear you man.