Your daddy’s rich / And your mamma’s…well, your daddy’s rich, anyway.
Summer has always been my favorite time of year, and living on an academic schedule has only amplified that natural preference. It’s a glorious season of no students, minimal department bullshit, and, this year anyway, a whole lotta slacking off. Most summers I’d be traveling to a conference, but I can’t travel. And most summers I’d be finishing up grants and catching up on projects, but I have tenure, so whatevs to all that, like, WORK.
Instead I’ve been doing stuff at the office that doesn’t require a lot of brain, but does need to be done. Like clearing out all the old busted lab equipment from the past five years and getting all our data and files tidied. (OMG, maybe I’m NESTING!)
AND at home I had the sense to ask my husband to help me create some time for myself. During his typical day, he takes an hour off here and there for athletic activity or a nice lunch, but I can’t really do that. And while I could come home early or leave late, I have a perhaps odd, perhaps obvious reluctance to be at home while I’m paying someone else to care for my child. So, since Mr. Bunny normally cares for Bun Bun on Fridays, I’m taking Fridays off and am spending the mornings on thing I like to do. Such as making tiny summer frocks for my child.
Or attempting to grow things, as I do every year. Last year was a great year for lettuce and a shit year for everything else. Please, tomato gods, let this be a good tomato year.
And then in the afternoon I care for my child since summers are busy for Mr. Bunny.
So yes, ADMIRE MY MAGNIFICENT EXISTENCE.
But I’ve also been struggling a bit. Not with anything particularly profound, just stuff I’ve talked about before. I still can’t believe that I am pregnant. I look down and am like HOLY FUCK. I am unable to imagine life with another child, and I freak out, and then I remind myself that I couldn’t really imagine life with one child, and you know what, it will all be okay.
More tiresome is my continued inability to appreciate all my husband does, because I fixate on the tiny things he doesn’t do.
Last week I had a long chat with a friend whose husband, based on her descriptions, appears to be an unmitigated asshole. It made me feel so fortunate. But no matter how many times I remind myself that I am fortunate, I still lose my shit when I encounter some item that he’s oblivious to. I’d give you examples but they would make me look like an obsessive control freak. Which I am. Also we haven’t had the sexual intercourse for, uh, I don’t actually know. Let’s say three months–that’s probably about right. I think he’s wearing thin as well because normally he can take a lot of my bullshit, but lately he’s been losing his temper with me. Which I think is totally understandable, but I still get really hurt and cry, or am super mad for an absurdly long time. Like going-to-bed-mad-at-each-other mad. Over NOTHING.
BORING. STUPID. NOT ATYPICAL FOR PARENTS OF A YOUNG CHILD. But then I think about some of the big downs we had during our post-Bun Bun ups and downs and it worries me that we’re starting from a much lower place this time. Ooof.
The other thing disturbing my MAGNIFICENT EXISTENCE is that my so-called best friend has returned to town. She and her child–the one who was gestating during the worst period of my infertility–came over for a few hours the other day. We’re sort of like strangers to each other, except with massive shared history and intimacy. I feel like I need to take some Decisive Action, but…most likely I don’t.
And yet, in spite of these little ripples in my mental pond, it’s SUMMERTIME. Mr. Bunny said the other day in a remarkably accusatory tone: YOU’RE HAPPY. I think he’s right.