Big, Fat, $%*&! F
By: Tosha Woronov
I’m failing at everything. A big, fat, fucking F.
My boss is like, “Hello? Are you there? Are you working? Are you ever coming in?”
The dishes are out of control. I wash one spoon at a time so Leo can eat his Cheerios in his 5-minute breakfast allotment before school.
The laundry? Check THIS out:
My dog stares at me all day as I try to work. He stares because he is getting one-eighth of the exercise he needs and deserves.
My cat has stopped meowing for attention and just squints his angry cat eyes at me.
I haven’t posted a blog in exactly THREE MONTHS.
I’m not even reading, which I’m usually pretty good about, burning through a novel every two weeks.
I’m in crisis over my diet/workout plan – too sick with sinus infection to workout, too OVER IT to eat another raw, brightly-colored vegetable.
And my son, my baby -he needs more. Daddy is away on a loooong business trip, and Leo needs someone to fill that playmate gap. (Hello, WHY didn’t we give him a brother 5 years ago again??) Someone to toss the ball, wrestle with on the couch, compete with, sweat with. Yesterday he wrote this adorable Daily Schedule on his wipeboard that included all the things that he and Mommy were going to do that evening, including cuddle time, reading together, playing a board game, an art project, and “indoor basketball”. Problem was, his start time for the schedule was 5pm (on a MONDAY), it involved 7 hours’ of activities, the board game he chose was MONOPOLY, and the activities didn’t include my list of things to do (like making dinner, walking the dog, folding the laundry, or watering the plants that had just suffered through another 100-degree day).
When I tried -gently, hesitantly -to point all this out to him, he got embarrassed (“this is a horrible schedule”), started to cry, then cleared his board in angry, frustrated swipes. I couldn’t calm him or help and so I started to cry too. I shared with him way too much for his soft little 7-year-old heart about how I was trying, and that I just. couldn’t. do it. (Luckily I had the wherewithall and insight to quickly get us into the car to drive to frozen yogurt for dinner, to sit together at a wrought iron table by a burbling fountain, cool off, and regroup.)
I am tired. Tired of not even coming close to filling the big shoes left by my husband. Tired of letting my son down. And the dog, and the cat, and my boss, and my friends, this house, the yard, myself.
I get an F this week; and please, if you are so inclined to comment – I know that it’s par for the course, and all parents go through this, that the dishes can wait, that I am supposed to give myself a break and I shouldn’t try to be Super Mom.
But I promise you, I am not trying to be Super Mom. I just want to be Functioning Mom. Dressed Mom. Breathing Mom. Mom with a Pulse.
And these dishes CANNOT wait.