I had every intention of sitting down and writing a smart letter today about watching the show “Girls” on HBO on demand last night–a show about a group of twenty-somethings in New York City trying to make it, particularly a writer–while flipping through the Hicks Garden and Nursery catalog–a direct mailer marketed for gardening senior citizens–but I don’t have it in me.
It’s 6:00 p.m. already and I just stepped on a pile of Pirate’s Booty (picture a massive crumble of that flakey white stuff, as if a Giant with dandruff just brushed his hair–and, I’m wearing black socks).
“Clean, Mommy, clean!” you both shout pointing at the mess, as I turn to the window and look out into the encroaching darkness, looking for signs of is it really going to snow?
I don’t see snow (yet), this approaching nor’easter, a storm that in January is exciting but come March when you’re over winter is pure dread, but I do see the husband from “Sleeping with the Enemy” in my mind’s eye. Someone recently joked that when her two-year-old son demands she wears her hair down (“DOWN! MAMA DOWN!”) it’s like living with an abusive boyfriend. You feel trapped about the decision. You think, what’s the harm?, if I just do this one small thing for him, what’s the big deal? If it will make him happy…
You are desperately trying to get my attention. You keep shouting my name louder and louder. Stickers? Is that stickers you’re now demanding?
I was going to write about the difference about your twenties and your thirties. About comparisons and contrasts to the show “Sex and the City.” About part of what’s so hard about that twenty-something stage is that it splinters off in a million different directions and you don’t know which way it’s going to land…
Until a shard lands you married with two kids in the suburbs, and you don’t care that you’re seriously reading a gardening catalog in sweatpants and white socks in bed at 8:30 p.m. because you’re so damn tired after the long day you had with the man from “Sleeping With the Enemy” I mean your children.
And it’s not that you’re not starry eyed or not aspirational anymore. Actually, it’s the opposite. It’s that you are starry eyed and aspirational and still have these big plans for when you grow up one day. You just can’t get to them right now, not while there’s a giant pile of Pirate’s Booty on the floor…