Letting Things Slide: A Slacker Mom’s Manifesto

Today, Andrew had to be home with me. This is unfortunate, because I threw out my back the other day and I’ve been hobbling around like a grandmother. Despite this, work and life must go on. For whatever reason, he awoke at 7:30 in a foul mood. It took the combined mechanical skills of both of us to hoist him from his crib. He refused to eat breakfast. He rejected my offerings of granola bars, waffles, and cereal, going so far as to dump his Cheerios all over the floor and grind them into our (possibly fake) Oriental rug with his bare feet. Nice.

Finally, in a desperate attempt to get him to eat something, I gave him one of my Luna bars for women. He devoured it. Perhaps he’ll grow breasts by nightfall. We’ll see.

Then he demanded to watch “Baba,” also known as Yo Gabba Gabba. If I have to hear “Shake shake shake, it off! Shake, shake, shake, back and forth!” one more time, I will shake the television until it explodes. Normally, I wouldn’t give in to daytime TV. But today I clicked on the television and he zoned out, zombie-like, for two hours. I peered over my laptop every now and then, checking to make sure he was breathing regularly. He couldn’t have been happier. His hands were flailing, his eyes were glazed, and he was quiet enough for me to file two stories and send some pressing emails.

Meanwhile, I remained in my pajamas. A word for the pajamas: These things have been in my Plan B rotation since 1999. Because I pulled out my back, I can’t go to the basement to do laundry. I asked Brian to step in, but he insisted that the hamper was only half full. Meanwhile, a moist pile of rancid jeans have been inching their way toward the ceiling since Sunday. Long story short, these pajamas (the elastic waist on which has long since given out) are my only clothing option. Also, they’re just frayed enough so that my leg hair, which I cannot shave because I cannot bend, is poking out through the cotton. Surely everyone has a pair of pants like this, right?

Anyway, I finally wrenched Andy from his zombie TV trance for a diaper change because I couldn’t endure the nose-twirling odor any longer. This was a misguided impulse. He bucked like a maniac on the changing table, proceeding to kick me in the teeth (twice) and flip over, rendering his changing pad filthy. I finally got him in a clean diaper and a onesie that hasn’t fit since November, paired with sweatpants that are at least two inches too long. I yanked ‘em up to his nipples and sent him toward the kitchen. Between my droopy pajamas and his neck-high sweatpants, we looked ready for a day of nursing-home bingo.

Lunch was a fiasco. Oddly, he refused my luscious homemade chili and instead opted for a handful of cheesy goldfish. I made myself a tuna sandwich, which for some reason caught his eye. He yanked my plate from the table, trotted into the living room, put a fistful of tuna in his mouth, and then smeared the rest all over the sofa. Of course, I’m out of Febreze, so I simply dabbed the fishy-mayo combo with water and flipped the cushion over (to reveal a whole new set of stains), opening the windows and praying for an early sunset. Brian’s going to be delighted when he sits down for SportsCenter tonight!

At this point, someone was calling me for work and Andy was whimpering. Naptime. Wincing in pain, I put him in his crib with his pacifier and shut the door. He got into slumber position, butt in the air and muttering. Strangely, though, instead of drifting into a peaceful sleep, he began to moan, unabated, which ultimately climaxed in a series of yowls. It was at this point that the phone rang again, with an attorney on the other line, wanting to discuss the terms of a contract for work. I’d been waiting for this call a week.

Sometimes you have split-second moments as a parent: Do I do the right thing for my kid, or do the right thing for me? I chose me. I shut the bedroom door and answered the phone. As Andrew bellowed in the background, I discussed arcane legal terminology on my front porch (quietest place in the house) as cars whizzed past, their drivers probably wondering when Arlington opened an insane asylum.

I tiptoed back inside. Andrew had drifted to sleep. I managed to do an hour of work until he woke up again, angry for some unknown reason. I got out his puzzles. He played with them for a minute, then grumbled. I pulled out his toy kitchen and requested that he make me pizza. Probably remembering the tuna incident, he didn’t buy it. Finally he stomped toward the television and uttered those dreaded words: “BABA!” I turned the TV on yet again. At this point, he turned beet red and grimaced. Note: Luna Bars will make your child constipated.

At this writing, Andrew has logged at least four hours of television. Our house smells like a combination of tuna fish and dirty laundry. I’m still in my pajamas. I think I did all my work, but I’m really not sure. I just gave Andrew a bowlful of animal crackers, and in a couple minutes, I might brush my teeth. Brian isn’t due home until approximately 2013, because the Red Line broke down this morning and he got to work late. And, after my series of hostile Gchat messages to him, I’m sure he’ll take his time getting here, too.

But it’s OK. In a few minutes, a friend is coming over. She’s had a bad day too. She’s bringing her toddler and a bottle of wine. She just texted asking what kind I want. “Potent,” was all I replied. We’ve all been here. And, hey, if she doesn’t want to sit on the couch, I won’t blame her.