Most days I spend most of my at-work working hours in my chair at me desk. Today I barely saw my cubicle. Much as I enjoy a break in the routine, something to change it up, I’m really worn out. I hurt in places I haven’t used since I gave up the monkey bars in fifth grade. I spend the day climbing piping. While it was being assembled. With torches and grinders right by my head. While the wind gusted through bearing enough dust to suffocate on.
I’m filthy. I hurt. I’m tired. I’m still dehydrated after many glasses of water. I’m hungry less than an hour after dinner. I’d forgotten just why I went back to school to get a desk job.
I want someone to take care of me. I came home, got the kids and fresh load of scavanged boxes into the house. I snacked them. I (thankfully) managed to get out of my greased and grimed clothes. I started dinner, emptied the trash, did laundry, put dished away. Severed dinner. Did more lanudry, cleaned up dinner. Did more laundry. Got kids into PJ’s, teeth brushed, read to, tucked in. There’s more laundry. The sink’s full of dishes. The stove is burried under dirty pans. I’ve got piles of things to sort and pack.
I want someone to take care of me. I want to come home and have someone to open the door when I’m dropping stuff and my two year old just got taken out by an escaped box riding hurricane force winds. I want dinner to be almost reay, just far enough out I can take a shower first. I want the chores done. I want someone to lift the PB into bed when I can’t manage to move a thumb higher than my face. I want someone to get J to hold still long enough to take the last of the Easter candy off her face. In other words, I want a wife.
But not really, this is just a joke I have with myself. Only one person has ever appreciated this joke. She has a high-maintenence husband and an adult son who often functions like a 12 year old. And so, having a similarly twisted idea of humor, she gets my Working Single Mom joke.