12 Aug You’re Not Allowed to Divorce Me
I read about a study that says parenthood is worse than losing one’s job. Or the loss of one’s partner. Now I’m usually the first person to yell about how hard parenthood is. I mean, let’s be real, I started this blog just so I could complain about how much being a mother sucked big-time. And for my (4) readers who have loyally read along from the beginning, be honest, you read my blog so you can nod and exult and say “yes! Dammit, that’s right. I’m not the only one who fantasizes about sticking my kids in a cryogenic freezer so I can get some peace and quiet for a day. Or a year.” Or so you can pat yourself on the back and say, “Daaaayuuum I guess Im not such a bad mother after all. Did you see what that woman Lani did to her kids today?!”
So yes, I wholeheartedly agree that having kids is a nightmare. They rip your life to shreds and then poop all over the pieces while you vainly try to assert some measure of control (and hygiene) over your life and your living room.
But worse than losing your partner? I don’t think so.
I mean, for one thing, if there’s anything worse than having three kids under four years old? It’s having three kids under four years old BY YO DAMN SELF because their father ran off. Or suddenly dropped dead. I recall many sleepless nights filled with crying, hungry, sniffly babies and turning to the father of the crying/hungry/sniffly babies, and telling him, “Whatever you do, don’t you dare divorce me or die on me, y’hear? You’re not allowed to divorce me or die until all these children are grown up. There’s no way in hell you’re leaving me with all these kids to look after on my own. Y’got that?!”
I’ve also been known to say, “If you have an affair could you please make sure it’s with a woman who’s filthy rich and has a big house? Because you’re taking all your kids with you when you go.”
In my defence, such demented words only pop out at the busiest most demented moments. Like when Little Son was obsessed with his own poop and liked to finger paint with it. All over the walls. Or when Big Daughter was so stressed about having a baby sister that she would bite the door frame and leave toothmarks. Or when Little Daughter talked more to her imaginary BabyCat than she did to us and if you sat too close to her, she would yell, ‘NOOOO! Don’t sit on Babycat! You’re killing her!’ Or when Big Son wanted to be in every school sports team imaginable, even though he was dreadful at every sport he played, so we had to go support his every game and cheer real loud and watch dreadfully boring game after game. The list could go on and on and on…
We have a deal, the Hot Man and I. He loves motorbikes but he’s not allowed to have a Harley Davidson (Or go sky diving, bungee jumping, OR shoot up any drugs etc. Not that he’s ever expressed a desire to do any of those other things but still, JUST IN CASE.) until he’s sixty-five. By then all his children should be done with school and have jobs. And be able to dress themselves, cut up their own food, and brush their own hair in the mornings without a screaming tantrum. I guess he’s also allowed to divorce me when he’s sixty-five. But you won’t, right dahling? Cos you adore me and my weird ways, right?
This is why I have so much respect for single parents. They deserve to win the lottery every week and get accolades in heaven and on earth. You rock. I have the Hot Man to tagteam parent with and when the Fab5 were little, I also had my second mother Peka come to help with all the babies. But single parents have to hold on to their sanity 24-7 because there’s nobody to tap them out of the ring for an hour or two.
I’m not sure what the point of this blogpost is. Except to say I don’t agree with that study. It’s probably not relevant to my Pasifika-mum-ness anyway, because it’s a study of German couples in Germany and how they coped after having one kid. Raising them in a palagi world all by themselves with hardly any support. Which is a world of difference from a Samoan couple having one-two-three-four-five kids in Samoa. And being blessed to have lots of extended family support as well as the help of a wise, experienced mother-figure like Peka – who was way more patient with my kids than I ever was.
In conclusion, what do we learn from this blog?
The Hot Man is probably really looking forward to making it to sixty-five (one day) so he can own a Harley. (And possibly divorce me?!)