  I started a post about traveling in Spain when I was 18, which was an amusing story in itself, but then the phone rang and rang again, which is lovely, but writing about my past and all its rich tapestries is not where I am today.
Another dishwater day in Philadelphia -- humid as hell, I'm a walking heat rash, and all the Gold Bond powder in the world can't change it until the weather breaks. S working late -- AGAIN, which just means I have twelve straight hours to fill with .
.
.what? Plenty of things suggest themselves, none of which I feel like doing. P is being an albatross, a barnacle, one of those birds that sit on the rhinos' backs, pick your thing that rubber cements itself to you and allows you not enough space to even breathe or think.
I know she's bored. I know she wants me to take her someplace where she can either spend money we don't have or play with other kids. Will I get any points in heaven in the quest for the perfect playdate on her behalf? It's not like it used to be; lots of parents work and you have to plan this stuff.
I know I should be upstairs making some Martha Stewart craft with her, and I guess I will go do that. But first I need to get my head on straight so I can do it with a spring to my step and love in my heart. Some days, I must confess, riddled with guilt -- the obverse of the parenting coin -- I feel like saying, I didn't sign up to hang out with a four-year-old every waking moment of every day!
I understand why women go back to work full time, some days. They might also feel guilty for different reasons, but ah! A desk and work to do, and a phone to answer and be professional on! People to say, "Nice job! " People to say, "Want to go to get Skittles from the machine? " People to say, "You finished the project!
" The parenting job is never finished. The laundry job is never finished. The dishwasher job -- as we all know -- is never finished; and so one's psyche becomes perpetual "construction zone. " The caution tape and yellow barrels never come down. And no little voice going, "No! Your computer is turning into a crocodile! You can't sit near it ANYMORE! I want chips! I want Scooby Doo movie! I want that Goose Bumps book we saw in the triplets' car! We'll go buy it NOW! It is not out of print! It is not for big kids! It WON'T scare me!
You make toys of it NOW! You draw and cut out monsters and paint them for me NOW!
No!
I don't want stuff off the computer! That page didn't print out the way I wanted it! I want soymilk! I have to go peepee! The kitty threw up! Over there . .. you clean it up NOW! Ewww!There's someone at the door! I want a piece of cake! I spilled water on my shirt! I want my dinosaurs! Let's bake cookies! Mommy, we have a big problem, I have a hangnail!
Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mooooooommmmmy! " I'm so easy to please, even when I'm grumpy. I just want a whole day to myself, right here in the Rowhouse. With no one to answer to and nothing to clean, where I can sit on the sofa all day long and read excerpts of books I love, eating about six pounds of Cadbury chocolate without gaining any weight. While eating and reading, I can feel secure that wherever P is, she's having a better time than she could be having with me. I remember my mother saying she no longer answered to the name "Mommy. " She would say, "Help!
Don't help. Go play! " And at the time I thought that was harsh -- wasn't I her boon companion and little helper, following her everywhere all the livelong day? -- but now I know in my bones the frustration behind her ranting. My sister-in-law says, "Paybacks are a bitch. " It is nice to be needed. It is nice to be the center of someone's universe. But, as the child grows cognitively, they become more and more clever.
Even as teeny babies, you can see the wheels turning -- how much can I get her to do for me without my having to exert any effort ? So as they grow, there is a greater distinction between Mommy, provider and nurturer, and Mommy, doormat who will walk ten flights of steps in ten minutes to keep digging a toy out from behind the sofa that I keep deliberately putting there so I can amuse myself by watching her walk up and down the steps.
Thanks for listening. I have had this five minutes of peace and I think I'm ready to tackle The Day: Act II. 
