Traveled with an infant and a toddler over fourteen hours yesterday.
The toddler only threw up on me three times.
The infant, she just wept.
So there’s this Packer game coming up and I’m crossing one thing off my lifelist by going with some of my California friends.
They’re all coming tomorrow.
(Don’t worry, internet, our house sitter has angry tattoos on his well-muscled face.)
This is good timing, this trip, because what I’ve been doing has been in inverse proportion to what I want to do.
Read: Update this web site with wine info and party info.
Read: Make art.
Read: Alonetime, please.
I have done none of any of those things the past six months.
It’s making me a bitter martyr.
And I really need a joke.
So over the next week, I’ll be offline, chilling with parents and kids and family and friends.
No one asked you to be a Martyr
I seem to have noticed that lots of women who have children become martyrs.
They give themselves over to the housekeeping, to the child rearing, to full-time work, to husband support, to Can’t You See What I Do For You People?
What they never seem to remember is that the children didn’t ask to be born and raised.
The house never told them it needed all that attention.
The husband never requested they give up their ladies’ nights.
They quit being themselves to throw themselves at the altar of Can’t You See What I Do For You People?
They’re making themselves miserable so they can feel more important?
They’re making themselves sad to show how much they give up?
They want you to pity them, they want you to see how selfless they are.
No one likes a martyr.
No one asked you to be a martyr.
Baby, please do me a favor, if you see me breaking out the Can’t You See What I Do For You People, will you please crack a joke?
Will you bring me back from the glorious misery of self-pity?
I’d really appreciate that.