Note to Self

Happy Mother's Day to me! And here begins what is perhaps a catalog of all my deepest, darkest thoughts on motherhood, read by no-one but myself. Thanks Blogspot!

I have two children (a fact I'm still getting used to), and they'll need some pseudonyms: let's call them Angel Baby and Devil Child. Hm, beautiful symmetry aside, those may become tiresome. Okay then, how about a weather metaphor? Try this out: Sunny (four months) and her sister Tempest (three years old). Yeah, that works.

Sunny is lying on my lap blowing raspberries and yakking away like a baby pterodactyl (I'm sure they were mouthy little raptors) as I type this. I imagine that people who only have babies like Sunny will find this blog horrifying. But if you have a Tempest at home (and I know who you are because you made meaningful eye contact with me during Screamfest 2009 on the sidewalk the other day), you may see your darkest thoughts put to print. God help us both.

It's no accident that it's Mother's Day and Tempest and her mother are not currently co-located. That's because, despite the fact that I love her with the fiery intensity of a thousand burning suns, the best treat I can think of (this one-day-a-year-where-theoretically-I-can-do-naught-but-my-heart's-desire) is to spend as much time away from Tempest as possible. Why weren't the other 50-odd hours this week that she spent with her nanny enough, you ask? Because, Dear Reader, Tempest is quite simply (to borrow a description from Louis CK) an asshole. And until she grows out of it (Dear God let her grow out of it), I mostly don't enjoy her company. At least this blog will give me someplace to put my guilt whilst I treasure these precious moments of (pterodactyl-y punctuated) silence.

Sunny is what Tempest has never been. But she's still a baby, and babies are tiresome. Last night I paid our nanny (let's call her Gloria) $140 so I could be an adult for an evening and see a show with my husband (who we'll call Zen, because, well, he is). That's just how desperate we've become, when we're willing to pay $140 on top of dinner and Shins tickets just to get out of the house on a Saturday night. Why didn't we call the grandparents, of which we have multiple sets within a 50-mile radius? Because even though they managed to raise me and Zen without much permanent damage, I don't trust any of them as far as I can throw them with a baby for 6 hours. Especially not with a baby who's got an insanely self-centered, demanding, contrary (what is the word people use? high-spirited?) sister. When looked at in that light, I suppose $140 is a small price to pay for an evening without fear or excessive guilt.

So welcome to our happy little family, which isn't in reality extraordinarily happy or little. And now Dear Reader I must away, as the patience of little Sunny is worn thin. Even though I have more to say to introduce myself as a contender for Crappiest Mother of the Year, even I can't be completely immune to her cries for more than a couple minutes. Time to suckle my littlest piggy.