Oy.
Balance. I realized the other day, pretty much just as the baby
turned eleven months old, that I don't have any time to myself these
days. Even when I'm in the shower he's usually in his playpen outside
the door hollering for me. Right now he's supposed to be taking
a nap in his crib, but he hates his crib in the daytime so he's
standing up and saying "Ma ma ma ma" from down the hallway.
Do I need a babysitter? Do I need a date night? I don't know. Not
counting a few dentist and doctor appointments and haircuts, I've
only been away from him three times in eleven months. Once for Tears
for Fears in July, once for date night in August, and once to see
Knocked Up in June. Oh, and four: to see I Am Legend in December.
This morning at the dentist my hygenist was telling me about her
married friends who have a date night every week. Every week. That
blows my mind so hard I can't even believe it.
===
I
started another class with the baby, this storytime thing at the
local library. Burbank is a pretty mixed-race place, but apparently
only 30-40 year old white mothers take their babies to storytime.
And they aren't friendly. I came in a little late and totally got
the once-over stinkeye from a bunch of them, and then only one woman
talked to me while all the others looked sour. What is it with women?
It's so much easier to make friends with men.
After
storytime which was chock full of all things baby, I got in my car
to drive home and encountered no fewer than six women pushing strollers
in a three-block range. I started to feel incredibly claustrophobic
and like my life was ending, so I quickly drove over the hill into
Hollywood to recapture some energy, something different, to see
if anything could rekindle my lack thereof. I drove down Sunset
by Tower Records which they've painted blue and will I hear be tearing
down soon (sad sad sad), and I looked at all the fancy rich pretty
people having lunch curbside by Sunset Plaza, and then I went to
Amoeba Records where I bought two CDs: the semi-new Paula Cole and
the semi-new Bitter:Sweet. And oh dear, why are you trying to sell
sex at 40, PC? Just sing. And bring Jay Bellerose back when you
tour. Also, the nice clerk at Amoeba liked the baby who was papoosed
in a sling on my front and gave him a free Amoeba baby t-shirt.
Excellent.
I
came back to Burbank feeling better. But just barely.
