Single-parenting while a spouse is out of town is downright difficult. All week I’ve been hearing from my baby daddy about how hard his life is in NYC: “the coffee at that cafe wasn’t that good” and “the library tour was boring” and “I had to finish my milkshake alone.”
I wonder if he was just trying to feign hardship. Or maybe he really is ignorant to what life is like back at the ranch. There are meltdowns, cry fits, lots of timeouts. And then there are the kids.
Baby Rabies put it best here. The week of single parenting is usually a slow digression from super mom on day 1 to despondent alcoholic on day 5. But since my man is out of town for 8 days, and since I’m an overachiever, I have sped through all 5 steps to alcoholic in the 1st few days.
Within 3 hours after dropping Josh off at the airport, I had cleaned all closets, bagged goods for donating, fed and played with the kids, cleaned out files of papers, and cleaned the kitchen. Then that afternoon I took the kids to a water park (for the 1st time in the history of my parenthood).
And if that wasn’t ambitious enough, over the next few days I confidently and independently picked out the stones for our new patio pavers (despite my indecision paralysis). I went to a different stone yard and hauled home the stones to complete another project. Went to Home Depot. Target (twice). Managed to make a dozen meals while not using the stove. Did I mention I am a grant writing consultant? Yeah, been doing that this week too.
But I’m on empty now and still have a few days left. My kids are going about life as usual – normal squabbles, complaints, and demands. But I want to scream, “Don’t you see this is a state of an emergency? Pull your sh*t together!”
And every time my man complains that his food there isn’t that good, I’m about to say, “Just bring that home and I’ll eat it” and then I remember that’s impossible.
He will just have to consume that f*cking milkshake all by his f*cking self. Lucky bastard.