Man, I hate it when people assume I’m a 22 year old tragi-heroic single mom without a lick of sense and that’s why my kid’s bones are showing through his skin.
On the one hand, I don’t want to sail under false colors and let them give me that weird “status” of being their pet adopted poor person that they’re so open-minded to talk to. It’s an icky politeness and over-interest, like they’ve got an extra invisible hand patting themselves on the back.
On the other hand, if I refer to ‘my husband’ or fail to evade questions about being a renter or an owner (always tossed out at me like, “So, are you in an apartment around here?” said as if the word “apartment” were prickly in the mouth and had to be grasped firm & brave so as not to sting)… Well, then I feel like I’m whipping out my privilege. And then it somehow gets me extra-complicated hate. Like if I’m that sort of person i.e. upper class stay at home, then I’m saying “fuck you” by letting my belly hang out and having goofy-ass hair . . . it’s like it’s a slap in the face to them. Why? When.. what the hell… I’m not going to dress up to walk 2 blocks to the playground and these fuckers are lucky I’m wearing underwear.
Those snooty haterating playground wenches always get to me, but I’m extra touchy because Moomin looks like a starving rat.
Normally I’m not so mean and hating on them! Seriously!
Today we played 567134871 games of Crazy Eights. I cheated madly to lose, which is harder than you think. Mostly I slipped the eights up my skirt. When he looked away, I’d stick them on top of the deck for him to pick. Question: Should I teach him to cheat and detect cheating, as I was taught? Or is that a bad legacy to pass on?
Are the playground wenches reading this and thinking “See! I knew she was a nasty piece of work. She teaches her kid to cheat at cards!”
Two (three?) days out of the hospital. He ate half a bagel, two pieces of Frosted Mini-Wheats, half an Odwalla juice, several nibbles of bread and butter and… the crowning glory… a whole plate of chicken nuggets. Has his appetite returned? OMG! Why didn’t the hospital give him IV nutrients?
My theory is that the more I force him to run around and ride his bike and quit lolling in the hammock reading comic books, the more he’ll eat. Since I’m naturally indolent this meant a slow walk/bike to the park where we laid on the slide together and made up stories about the slavering dragon-hound in the pit below (since we were in a supervillain’s lair, where there’s always a trap door and a slide to a monster pit) laying on a bed of gnawed-on bones, ready to pounce. “Mom, I’m ready for us to stop telling this story now. How about something else.” “No, man, it’s okay. The dragon-hound is chained to the wall, and you take a thorn out of its paw. It eats the crackers that were in your pocket and becomes your faithful pet.” “Oh! Oh yeah! That’s RIGHT! And then we go UP the slide and it defeats the evil villain! He looks like Dr. Doom! We’re going, ha-HA! GOTcha! We defeat him with the dragon-hound, and I call him… Droon. Not Droom, Droon. I’m made of metal like a robot. ”
This counts as healthy exercise, right?
I feel half-crazy after last week’s hospital heinosity. Can I please get over it already . . . I think I need therapy, or another large glass of good whiskey.