I vant to be alone

Okay—I’m having one of those days. I am pissy, cranky, grumpy, disgruntled, irritated, crabby, annoyed, grouchy, testy, cross and peeved. Here it is 2 in the afternoon, and I’ve just finally gotten dressed—and not for lack of trying. I even made it all the way upstairs twice before getting dragged down again for some trivial matter or other. I had been so hoping to get some writing done today. I’m new to the concept of writing regularly—and it’s a habit I want to get into, if not daily, then pretty close to it. No chance. No way. Not today. (Okay—I am writing now, but I’m sitting in a doctor’s waiting room—no kids in sight.)

I am truly awed by the organized folks who are able to get so much done in any given day. I’ve been up since about 6:15 am, and feel as if I’ve gotten nothing done (except reading a bunch of blogs—talk about a time-suck). And somehow, my kids cannot do without me for a nanosecond. Every time I’ve tried to do something NOT involving them today, I have been interrupted, dragged off task or otherwise bugged. Clearly I am doing something wrong, because my kids can’t even wipe their adorable, little asses without my intervention (okay—to be fair, it’s only my 6-year-old who still wants mom to do that dirty work). Even when Dad and/or the housekeeper is there, the refrain is “NO, I want MAMA to do it,” whether “it” is getting a glass of water (which my oldest can do by herself) or checking the time (both kids can tell time—digital and analog), or having me check some invisible scratch on their person. I swear, I think they’d ask me to pick their noses for them if they (I?) didn’t think it was so gross. Dear G-d, how did it come to this? Am I, as I fear, raising spoiled brats? Aaaaarghhhhh!!!! I feel like I’m going crazy.

Things I’ve tried and the results:

Telling the kids I’m working and can’t be disturbed: Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha! I’m not even sure that made it in one ear, much less out the other.

Shutting myself up in my room (after telling the kids I’m working): Fat effing chance—within minutes one or the other is either banging at the door or barging in.

Hiding in the bathroom: Sadly, not even this works, although it has provided me with a whole new perspective on multi-tasking.

(Yes, I know I need to get a working lock on our bathroom door. We have been loathe to do so ever since my 40th birthday, when my son locked himself in my bathroom and flushed a bunch of toys down the toilet, necessitating a call both to the locksmith AND the plumber. It’s funny in retrospect, but at the time, well, let’s just say it was not the most enjoyable birthday I’ve ever had.)

One thing is clear—I need to start setting some boundaries. I suspect my little darlings are in for a rude awakening. I have never “worked” in their short lifetimes, and the work I am doing now, writing, is generally done at home. (My kids seem to understand the concept of Dad working, even if he’s doing so at home, and generally give him a wide berth. Maybe that’s because he has an office he goes to off to in the morning, so that they can conceive of his having some kind of life outside our home. Or maybe it’s just because he’s Uber Grump when he is working.) Thus far, my children have not had any real experience of my putting something other than them first.

And it’s only going to get worse: A friend and I have just decided to try to start a business (which is in itself hilarious—I don’t think there’s a business-savvy molecule in my body. . .). Who knows, by the end of the summer, my son might even have mastered the toilet paper roll all by himself.

Nota Bene: The foregoing was actually written yesterday, but it will come as no surprise to learn that I was unable to finish it then. . .