2013 -- sounds so space age. But where's my hoverboard, McFly? Why is Earth the only planet I've been to? (I so want to see Uranus.) Where's the cure for cancer already? And why am I still wiping my own ass? Like, GAWD, it's 2013.
Technology has spoiled me rotten. Almost everything is right at my fingertips and available in a heartbeat. So the things that are still sluggish drive me to utter madness. Breakfast time alone is infuriating. Take the kettle. (No really, take it.) Even the electric one takes light years to boil. Every time I get a cup of tea, I sprout a chin whisker. And the toaster -- has this invention evolved at all since it popped up (ha!) in 1919? By the time my bagel is browned, I'm ready to stick a fork in there just to end the agony.
And then there's the redheaded rascal at the kitchen table demanding jam instead of butter and his toast cut into squares instead of triangles, who has his shirt on backwards and no pants, who runs and hides when it's time to brush his teeth -- a fate worse than death. And I'm running late for work, of course. So my morning dialogue with him sounds a lot like this:
"Come on, Max. Hurry up and get dressed, Max. Eat your breakfast faster, Max. We're late, Max. We need to get going, Max. I can still see you behind the sex swing, Max." (Yeah, right. My husband wishes.)
The fly on the sugar-bowl shakes its head in disgust. I hate me too. Max is just being a kid, savouring the taste of raspberry jam, marvelling at the shape of his bread, swinging his naked legs under the table to the circus music in his head. And I'm here trying to rush him through the simple joys. Hurrying him along so we can get to what's next. Slap me with a frying pan.
So now that it's a brand new year, I guess my resolution is obvious: slow down and enjoy the moment. That's what you're expecting me to say, right? That's where you think this is going. And perhaps that is where this should go. But alas...
I'm not going to resolve to change my ways very much at all. I am what I am. I was born in a flame. Or the back of the Bonavista North Bus. Or something.
See, I'm fast. I scurry. I do look a lot like a squirrel. (Insert "nuts in mouth" joke here.) I hate golf but love tennis. I'd rather salsa than waltz. I hate melancholy music. (Adele can wail but she makes me want to kill myself every 30 seconds.) I type a gazillion words per minute with all the wrong fingers. The first time I attempted to bake bread, I grew so impatient waiting for the dough to rise I stabbed it 37 times with a cleaver.
It's not that I don't stop and smell the roses. I see beauty all around me. And I sit and ponder the meaning of life all the time. But then I realize my sitting and pondering has made me late for the Sit and Ponder Conference and I have to go turbo on everyone's ass to get there.
And it's not that I can't relax. Oh I can relax. I get out of bed at the last possible moment. I am the mayor of Dreamland and the cloud people need me to lead them.
In a nutshell: life is chaos, it's all my fault, but I just can't help it so bite me. I'm a busy woman who is chewing what she has bitten off as fast as she can. I'm a hot mess, always in a rush to get where I'm going, dragging poor Max behind me. But damn it, I'm doing it. I'm getting there. Max is happy and smart and wonderful.
There is room for improvement for sure. Setting my alarm for 20 minutes earlier sure seems like a good idea. And driving the speed limit, that seems wise. But at this dawn of a new calendar year, I'm not going to make a grand pledge to change. To get my shit together so I can slow down and savour the moments and not smash a toaster. Because this motherf***ery works for me, mostly. So, save a few tweaks to spare my boy mommy's madness, I'm going to resolve to keep making it work for me. A more ambitious pursuit is bound to fail because this bitch is a squirrel.
So my new year's resolution is to keep clipping along: typing fast, working hard, laughing loud, raising my boy the best way I know how. And, wherever we go, leaving a trail of fire behind us. Word to your mother.
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