On Sunday afternoon I meet two of my friends for lunch. They met each other at 11 for manicures and pedicures, but I wasn't able to go because Geoff has to be at church services every Sunday morning, and I have to either attend, too, or drop him off and pick him up, and in any case I have to take care of Katie then. On Sunday we have attended the second service, and even though Geoff had promised me that he "wouldn't stay and chat" after this particular service, so that I could get to lunch on time, he still stays and chats, and by the time we leave I am irritable.
I drop Geoff and Katie off at home, feeling slightly guilty that I am going to miss spending time with Katie this afternoon, feeling annoyed that it is already 12:26, 4 minutes before my lunch date, and realizing suddenly that my cell phone is completely dead, so I can't call to let anyone know. I feel helpless and powerless.
When I meet up with them, twenty minutes late, they are a little giggly, relaxed, happy. They are suntanned. Erin's toes are orange, and Candace's are pink, and as I watch them I feel like I've missed out on more than just the nail treatments. I am wearing my black Payless sandals, and they are both wearing flip flop type sandals. I remember, too late, that I had brought a pair of flip flops to change into after church, but that I've left them in the car. "How are you?" they say. "You look tired. Are you tired? You look tired."
"I'm tired," I say. "I'm ok."
We go to lunch at Potbelly's, a sandwich place, because they want to get something cheap. I get a diet IBC root beer out of the refrigerated case. They both get bottles of water. I feel like I've chosen the wrong thing, but that it is too late, and too silly, to change it now. An old Steve Miller Band hit is playing in the restaurant, and they both dance along to the music. I feel no urge to dance along. I think that maybe I should try to fake it, but I don't. I try to smile appreciatively at their dancing. I don't believe the truth of my own smile.
"Do you want to get a table outside?" Candace asks, and disappears to the sidewalk seating area.
We sit down at a table outside and unwrap our sandwiches, and Erin looks at me. "So, how are you?" she asks brightly. "How's Katie? How's Geoff?"
I look at her, start to speak, and hesitate.
"Uh oh," she says.
I smile. "Katie's great," I say. "Geoff is fine. I'm fine." I take a deep breath and realize that I am choking up. I'm glad I'm wearing sunglasses. "Everything's fine," I say. I laugh a little. I realize that I am trying to hide the fact that I'm crying, that I don't want to turn this afternoon into a pity party for one. I realize that I'm not hiding anything from them.
They look sympathetic. "I don't like to hear that," Candace says. "'Everything's fine' is not good!"
I tell them what I know. I tell them that I really am fine, but that I am tired, just like I look. I tell them that it is hard, that I am having a hard time juggling everything. I tell them that our new home that we moved into a few weeks ago is a mess, and that's it's bringing me down. I tell them that I am still overweight and struggling with that. I tell them that I need time for myself, but that I don't know when to get it or how to spend it. I tell them that when I get home from work, I want to spend that time with Katie, and that by the time she is in bed it is 8 or 8:30 at night, and I am tired. I love my daughter, and I want to spend all of my free time with her, and yet I want free time for myself.
They say that I should go ahead and go out, even if it means I need to sacrifice an evening with Katie, that it's more important for all of us that I stay happy than that I spend one particular evening with Katie. "You should come out to dinner or a movie or drinks with us," Erin says. "You need to do something for you."
"I would do that," I say. "I would totally do that."
Erin nods, but it has taken at least a month and a half for us to plan to get together today, a day on which we end up spending an hour and ten minutes together.
I change the subject and ask how they are doing, and they tell me what they know, and as they talk, I think: I love them both, but today I am not one of them.
After we finish our sandwiches, we go and get Italian ice. Well, Candace and I do - Erin pops a stick of gum into her mouth so that she won't be tempted to eat anything else. Candace and I get small peach Italian ices, and the three of us walk down the sidewalk together toward the grocery store, where Erin needs to buy a few side dishes to take to a cookout that night. We walk, and we talk.
As we stand in front of the deli case, debating what Erin should take to the cookout, I say that the topic which takes up more of mine and Geoff's conversation than any other these days is the topic of how wonderful our daughter is. Erin shakes her head and says, "Oh, no," but I actually mean it in a good way. I have thought, on more than one occasion, how much harder it would be to be a parent if the other parent is only half as into it as you are. The two of us are constantly proclaiming to each other, "Look how cute she is!" "How did she get to be so smart?" "She is amazing."
"We talk about other things, too," I tell them. "But so much of the time that we spend together is spent with her, too."
I wonder if this is what people mean when they tell you that you don't understand what it is like to be a parent until you have a child. I always thought that they meant that you would not understand how much you would love your child, and I thought that while I might not know the exact intensity, I was pretty sure I could at least imagine it. But maybe they mean that you will not realize how lonely it will make you. Maybe they mean that you will not realize how hard it will be to put your own needs second or third, 98% of the time, for the next several years or longer. Whatever they mean, lately I have been feeling it: I didn't know this is how it would be. This is hard.
We walk back from the grocery store, and we get to my car first. They each hug me and leave me at what I can't help but notice is my dirty, aging car (with broken turn signals and trash in the back seat), and as I walk around to the driver's side and get in, I suddenly start to cry.
They walk down the block away from me. I get in the car, start the engine, and drive. I pass them a few seconds later, and I honk hello. They raise their arms and wave. They smile.
I suck in a deep breath and wave back, and as I drive past them, now that I'm in the car alone, I let myself cry.
*******
After I get home, I pick Katie up. I lean in toward my beautiful lovely toddler daughter. "Can I have a kiss?" I ask her. Sometimes now when I ask her for a kiss she will run across the room to me going "mmmm" and then pressing her head against my face. But this time when I ask her she looks at me, lifts up her hand, and bats at my face. She shakes her head.
"Why?" I ask her. I read the other day that at this age, children should not be punished for hitting. Instead, parents should say, "No hitting," and remove themselves from the child's presence. "No hitting," I say, and I put her down. She reaches for my can of diet Coke, then reaches for the remote control, then turns back to the tv, which is playing Baby Bach. I sit in the chair by myself and watch her and feel sorry for myself.
*******
Geoff and I talk. I tell him I don't know how I feel about anything, hardly. He asks what I am upset about, and I spend five minutes talking about all the things that have upset me today, from being overweight to being hot to being tired to being lonely. How I feel about friends, how I feel about myself, how I feel about us, how I feel about our new home, how I feel about my job, how I feel about my age. I am sad, I am scared, I am worried, I am confused.
He says nothing except that "I'm sorry you feel that way," and so after another minute of silence I say, "Maybe we shouldn't even be together." He gets angry then, and asks me why I would say such a thing, and I say that it's because I am thinking such a thing, and that the reason I am thinking such a thing is because he is not talking to me, and because I am lonely, and I need someone to talk to me. So we sit, and I cry, and we talk, and he cries, and he hugs me, and I talk more, and he tries to listen and ask questions instead of telling me how to fix things. "I love you so much," he says, and I know it's true.
"I love you, too," I say, and that is true, too.
(I wrote what's above earlier in the week. I was feeling tired and depressed. I'm feeling much better today - sort of surprisingly better, since not too much has changed, other than that I've gotten more sleep and had some more free time and unpacked some more boxes - but I guess those things are enough to make a major difference in how I'm feeling. Anyway, lately I've been wondering if I've been giving the wrong idea about how it is for me to be where I am right now. It's good, overall, but it rarely seems easy. Maybe I should write the hard stuff sometimes, too.)
