I'm envious of Sara C. Allen now. She just writes what she thinks, and she is consistent. I really do envy that. I have a huge self-censorship problem. There are lots of things that I want to write about, but mostly, I stop myself. In an odd way, I think that I don't want anyone to know too much about me. Not sure why that is, and as always, I don't want to get locked in to too much self-analysis this morning.
Here's what I want to write about this morning. I want to stop myself, but I'm not going to. Here goes:
As a child, I remember reading alone in my bedroom. Or spending the day at home alone. I loved doing that. Now, not so much. It's not so much about being alone, because I'm not. There's just too much for one person to do. I promise I'm not looking for sympathy. I spend a lot of time thinking about single mothers. I don't really know how single mothers do it. Or, especially, how single mothers with very busy jobs do it. There is no way they could possibly sleep. So, I sleep some, and I don't feel like I accomplish enough at work.
Here's what I really hate about being alone. There are some things I don't want to do, and I don't want to know how to do. I don't want to move furniture. I don't want to take the lid off the toilet and try to figure out why the tank is not filling up with water. I especially don't like it when I know that I can't do something on my own, and then I have to ask people to help me. I called three people to help me move furniture, and it was painful. I felt terrible for asking. No one could come which made me feel even worse. Okay, so maybe I am having a little bit of a pity party.
I called my dad about the toilet and said this, "I don't mean to be vulgar, Dad. I don't mind being alone. In fact, in a lot of ways I like it, but this is the kind of bullshit I cannot stand." He said, "I don't do this kind of stuff either. I call the plumber." That was the moment I realized I could not remember the plumber's name, and his number was not in my phone. Eventually though, if you stick your hand in the toilet long enough, you can get it to work.
I also took the next step in the evolution of a white middle class (I guess) mother. I took my daughter to a restaurant and watcher her eat dinner while I drank a glass of white wine. This I had not done before. It seemed like potentially a step in the wrong direction. But, I sort of enjoyed it.