Stepford Witch

Breaking news:  I DO NOT have sunshine beamin' out of my ass at all times.  I'll give you a minute to absorb this information.  Shocking, eh?

I don't do "fake" very well.  If I'm not really feelin' something, I can't express it.  I've tried.  All of the "fake" happiness I can muster goes in to the care of my six-month-old.  Don't get me wrong, he is the source of a tremendous amount of joy for me.  He's such a good and sweet-dispositioned baby, it's hard not to want to make him smile and coo.  If that means I cheerfully sing "Three Little Fishies" for the umpteenth time, that's what I do.  Happily. 

I am a creature of habit.  A slave to a routine.  I am convinced one of the reasons Riley is such a happy baby is because I implemented a routine when he was about six weeks old.  And we stuck to it, for the most part.  Now, I'm not a complete Nazi about how we spend every minute of our day.  I am flexible.  In general though, you can pretty much set a clock by our daily activities.  The hum-drum monotony of our schedule is enough to drive the most obsessive-compulsive person insane. 

This is not a complaint.  I am grateful I get to stay at home with him and soak in everything I missed when my other two were his age.  Every new squeal, smile, laugh, and milestone is worth it.  Our routine day in and day out gets a little old.

John just came tra-la-la'ing in tonight from another business trip, gallivanting all over Louisiana.  Okay, so it's less gallivanting and more working, but try telling that to my more-than-bored psyche.  His travels elicit a tricky realm of emotions in me.  Yes, I understand it's necessary for his job.  Seeing as how his is the only income, this is important.  It's also the source of a simmering resentment and has been for some time.  Ask me where I want to be, what I want to be doing, and taking care of my son is the response you'll get.  That's the tricky part.  I don't want to be doing anything else, I just resent the fact that he goes and comes as he pleases, guilt and worry free.  And he gets a change of scenery as often as he wishes. 

For those reasons, I have no desire to throw him a effin' ticker-tape parade when he returns from his trips.  Yes, I miss his face and his helping hands when he's not here.  At the end of the day, though, it just pisses me off.  And my ability to "fake" anything resembling a happy homecoming is zapped by 7 p.m..  Gone. 

There's an expectation that I am supposed to be ever-cheerful and eager to please.  Search though I may, I have yet to find any "Perpetually Happy!" pills in the drug store.  If you find any, how 'bout let me know.  Maybe then I could sport one of those eery, plastered permagrins a-la The Stepford Wives.  Or cook a five-course gourmet meal and simultaneously starch his shirts.

All while smiling, of course . . . .

=))))))