Rob is out of town again. It should be fine, since he barely travels for work anymore, but even once a month makes me anxious. I think it’s more the build-up to the trip that I dread than the trip itself. It’s easier when he’s here, because we have an understanding, a way of managing my illness, our daughter, our schedules. When he’s gone, I worry that it will all fall apart. But it never does. I have plenty of help, including family who traveled to be here this week.
Last night, Scarlett climbed into my bed. “Daddy isn’t here and I get to sleep with you!” She had the beginnings of a cold all day, but it wasn’t until night that they blossomed into full-on congested coughs, snorts and sneezes. Neither of us slept, and now she’s home from school, watching My Little Pony: Equestria Girl. As an aside: this movie is TERRIBLE. I tried to turn it off, but she begged to keep watching and I gave in. It’s 9:30am, we’ve already read six books and had a dance party (she spun, I laughed.) About an hour ago, I began to wonder why I didn’t just send her to school. Then she started hacking in my face, and I remembered.
It’s hard to be home with a sick kid, just filling the hours, even when you’re an able-bodied parent. Like I said, I have help—an aunt and uncle in town—so it’s technically manageable. More than manageable, actually. My aunt made breakfast. My uncle took out all the garbage. It’s entirely possible that the exact same thing would happen if I was perfectly capable and they were in town for a visit. I need to remind myself that just because people are helping me doesn’t mean that I need to sit here feeling helpless.
But part of me can’t help thinking—AGAIN—that this just isn’t how it should be.
When I was about 25, I was at a work lunch, chatting with others at the table about aging. “I can’t wait to be in my early thirties,” I declared. My coworkers greeted this as the random statement it was, so I explained that I had heard that the early thirties were a time of great happiness and increased confidence levels. Full disclosure: this belief was partly based on a mass email forward I had received entitled The Geography of a Woman, the sole purpose of which, it seemed, was to disparage older women (and certain parts of the world) and end with a punchline about men. It was a dumb joke, a giant generalization. Still, it stuck with me.
“You seem pretty happy and confident now,” one coworker observed.
I was pretty happy, and I showed a decently confident front. But I was looking forward to getting older, always convinced that everything would keep getting better, that I would be more and more sure of myself and my place in the world. Bring on 40, I thought, once I entered my thirties. I’ll look and feel awesome. It doesn’t hurt that I have a bunch of friends in their 40s who all look incredible, are successful in their business careers and/or raising children, and still have a ton of fun. Women to look up to. Except it seems that will never be me.
This is the part where my stream of consciousness punches me in the face. I mean, seriously, shut up. I’m sitting here, writing and drinking tea while my daughter, dressed in her Halloween costume, sits happily on the couch with my aunt. I’m up, I’m dressed, I’m doing something I love to do. Why must I constantly compare my life to a life that I once invented in my head?
An observation: It is no accident that my mood directly corresponds to the amount of caffeine I’ve consumed. Pre-tea, gloomy. Mid-tea, feeling philosophical. Post-tea, resolved to stop the whininess. Post-post-tea, probably inspecting my skin in a mirror and wondering when I might make an appointment to wax my eyebrows. Still trying to be my best self, regardless of what else is going on.
And that includes far less reading (and reading into) of mass emails.
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