Dallymania Sunday

I used to think nothing was as exhausting as shooting a movie. Naive, stupid me. I have no idea how stay-at-home moms do what they do. The days that I have to stay at home with Dally are by far some of the most unproductive* days I have ever had - this coming from someone who can really take the word 'unproductive' to incredible levels (I've lost years watching Lifetime movies). Today was another Paintball Sunday, which meant it was just Dally and me all day. I managed to make the bed and empty two trashcans today. That's pretty much it.

The rest of the day was all about Dally. He plowed the side of his face into a cabinet door so there was some consolation cuddling. Later I made him some macaroni and cheese that he didn't want to eat so I ate it (why let perfectly good food go to waste) and just as I was going for the last bite, he wanted it. And when there was no more, he started throwing a tiny tantrum. I rushed to make more, and, of course, he no longer wanted it.

Shortly thereafter, Dally spilled a bowl of soup and then proceeded to eat what didn't spill out - a piece of zuchini that he managed to drag to the living room carpet. After being indoors all day, I figured we should get some fresh air. I toyed with the idea of going to Walmart but my heart just wasn't into it. So we went for a walk. A three-mile walk. Well, it was supposed to be.

A quarter of a mile into things, Dally saw a balloon.

Balloons have become the bane of my existence. I can't even go to Vons with Dally anymore because every time he sees a balloon he starts going nuts - he's gotta have it. And since I'm one of those asshole parents who thinks kids shouldn't get everything they want, it usually turns into a loud and hurried experience where I forget something important like my powdered donuts. It sucks.

Anyway, once Dally saw the balloon, it was over. He cried his eyes out like I had just poked them - except the little punk would quiet down when a jogger would bypass us. He was torturing me and only me with his wails. So we made it to a stoplight a quarter of a mile down and then headed back home. On the way back, John called and asked how I was doing.

"I'm fucking exhausted. Hurry up and come home."

The next seven minutes walking home, I daydreamed about the conversation we would have when John came home. It would sort of go like this: This wasn't the life I imagined for myself. This totally sucks. I feel like a goddamn babysitter and I don't even like kids. What kind of a weekend is this? What the hell?!?!??!

But he came home and said we should get Norma to watch Dally when he's out at paintball. He said he sensed the desperation in my voice and felt really bad. And then he cooked dinner. That never happens.

* I know all you warm and fuzzy people will suggest that while I may not be productive in terms of getting chores or income-generating work done, the quality time I spend hanging with my son is completely productive in terms of fostering a happy, healthy kid and and making me a balanced, satisfied mother. Unfortunately, I haven't reached that state of enlightenment, thanks.