Here we are again, Saturday stretching in front of us. Husband is working, I’m sick, kid is…bouncy. I know I need to be better about Saturdays – make plans so we have something to do. But again I haven’t done that and again I’m not motivated to try. I’m tired, it’s raining and the last thing I feel like doing is going out in public. Especially with a two-year-old.
He decides he doesn’t want to nap. I try for an hour, maybe longer, to no avail. He’s gone from asking to go to bed to flipping around, falling off the bed, hiding under the covers. This is not a good sign.
Eventually he says, “I’m done.” So am I. I give up.
Downstairs again, we eat lunch. Or at least I eat lunch. He has two bites of soup and decides he’s had enough. I can’t muster the energy to care.
We try the nap again. No go.
The good news is I haven’t lost my patience with all of this, as has happened on so many weekends before. The bad news is I have someone breathing down my neck about it.
“He’s obviously tired and now he’s going to be hungry. Why don’t you try harder?”
“Because I’ve already tried – twice now – to get him to nap. He’s not going to. And if he’s not going to eat now he’ll eat later.”
“He’s going to get bored, though. Why don’t you go out?”
“Where would we go? It’s raining, and I don’t feel like it. I’m dying for some time to myself.”
“You had that on Thursday, remember? You took the day off and sat on the couch in your pajamas all day.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
“You have a two-year-old. This is how it is now. Everyone else can do it. Why can’t you?”
“I don’t know. But it’s been over two years of this same shit every weekend. Why can’t I do this? I’m sick of this. So sick of not being able to be a mom like everyone else.”
The phone rings.
“It’s your mom.”
I’m tempted to not answer it. I suspect she’s seen my tweet and is calling to see if I need backup. I don’t need it the way I’ve needed it on other days, though I’d happily have someone else come and distract him for a bit. But if I answer the phone and say yes it’s an admission that I can’t do this.
Screw it. I answer the phone.
She comes over. My dad, on his way home from downtown, comes over. While they play I do laundry and tidy up a bit. The productivity helps my mental state.
After a while, they bundle the kid up and take him and the dog to the park. Alone in the house, the dialogue starts up again.
“Your mom did this with four kids, you know.”
“Believe me, I know. I’m sure she wonders what the hell is wrong with me. It’s not like it was before – where they have to come so I don’t throw him out the window – but I’m still not where I want to be. I just don’t know how to make other people understand it. I don’t understand it.”
“So just suck it up. He’s your kid, you’re his mom, and it’s your job to take care of him. Entertain him, stimulate him, play with him.”
“Sometimes I don’t want to.”
“Oh for God’s sake. Your husband does this every day! He manages to find things to do so they have fun. He doesn’t just sit there and wish he had the house to himself. What’s wrong with you?!”
I’ve had enough. I call a halt to the stream of self-criticism.
“Hey! Think back to what weekends used to be like! I’m doing better than I used to. I didn’t have any ‘I can’t do this!’ moments today. Yeah, sure, ‘I don’t want to’ isn’t a whole lot better but at least I’m not having a meltdown. And besides, I’m sick. And I’m tired. I’ve got a really wiggly kid sleeping on me every other night and work has been busy and we’re waiting for God-knows-what to happen on Monday AND I’ve got stupid family stress. So just give me a break!”
For once, the other voice is silent. Thinking. Reflecting.
I still suck at Saturdays, but I suck less than I used to.
