The Toxic Housewife

Mr. C and I stopped by my former workplace this morning to visit all my co-workers.  These people had become important friends in my 8 years at the job; everyone I worked with, in fact, was sort of a deranged extended family member. One of the reasons it took me so long to decide to quit and stay at home was that I was worried about leaving this job I loved so much and missing these people I'd come to care about.  I sat with some of them today and caught up on current events, and it proved to me that I am SO HAPPY NOT TO BE THERE ANYMORE!

Spring 2007 You’ve taken my husband from me, and I thank you for it. And it’s not because I don’t love him. It happens every year: as soon as winter begins to fade and the snow and mud is no longer a risk, as soon as the weather warms enough to grip the handlebars without his hands freezing in that position, as soon as his work for the day is done (and often even before), my husband is strapping on his helmet, zipping up his coat, and hopping on his bike. Occasionally, I’ll beg him to take me with him. At his insistence, I change into my long pants and put on an extra sweater, even if it’s eighty degrees outside. I’ll manage to stuff myself into a leather jacket, suspecting I look a little like the Michelin Man’s long-lost sister. I shove an old helmet with face guard over my head, feeling like a Storm Trooper. I wrap a scarf around my neck and squeeze sunglasses under the helmet, then struggle into gloves. By the time my routine is complete, I’m sweating and out of breath, an...

I used to hate it when people gave me advice with my newborn. I mean, I appreciated the sentiment, and all, but – really – what did they know? Suddenly anyone who had ever had a child, no matter how long ago, had an opinion on how I was Doing It Wrong.

Mr. C has started talking quite a bit now. It still shocks me when he speaks: after all that time of having a gurgling, cooing alien in my home, having him say something nearly intelligent is almost like having your faithful lab look at you one morning and spontaneously bust out a bad-ass rendition of the Gettysburg Address.  “I want . . . to eat . . . meat,” Mr. C will eventually get out, and Bee and I will look at each other proudly. “He wants meat. Did you hear that? Get that boy some meat!” And we scramble to comply. “I want a popsicle!” the toddler continues, and Bee and I screech to a halt for a conference on the merits of popsicles before breakfast. Sensing our hesitation, Mr. C switches tactics.