Saturday, July 17, 2010

You know, I gave birth to you. That should count for something

"I MEED MAH SQUIRK BOTTLE." This is the sentence Owii has been repeating for the past five minutes. We are getting the kids ready to go to the beach, and that requires more work than I remember the beach requiring when I was five. Or twenty-five. Or anytime when I didn't have kids.

Then Owen hears Chris stomp out the back door (Chris and Sam stomp everywhere. As if the goal isn't so much to go down the stairs as to try to go through the stairs) and immediately starts wailing, "MAH DADDY! MAH DADDY! MAH DADDY GONNA WEAVE ME!"

I assure him that Daddy will NOT leave without him, but we have to get shoes on. Owen, ignoring me, races to the back door, and sees Chris coming back in.

"Daddy, pwease don't weave me," he whimpers. Chris promises not to leave him. Owen skips gaily through the dining room, chanting, "mah Daddy's not gonna weave me, mah Daddy's not gonna weave me."

Last night, while getting ready for bed, Sam told me that he wished Daddy were home. Because he likes his Daddy better. Because he has black hair and black is his favorite color. Oh, how he misses Daddy. Also, could I be nicer to Daddy so maybe he wouldn't work so much?

Worst marital counselor EVER.

The list of things I have done for these children, which starts with me carrying them in my womb for NINE MONTHS, and ends, for now, with the poopy underpants I washed this morning, is not a short list.

Even Lillo, whose every whim I spend 24 hours a day catering to, is just as likely to smile at Chris as she is at me.

Chris is an involved parent. He's not the guy that "babysits" his own kids. But I'm involved, too!

Yet nobody here seems particularly concerned about me weaving.

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