peevish mama

I never particularly imagined myself to be the type of person who would blog. I will fully admit to being a bit of a technophobe, although I try to gloss it over in the rosy sepia tones of a cute “throw back.”  I fancy myself someone who would have been better suited to life before high fructose corn syrup and email.  I like the feel of paper between my fingers, the heft of a book tucked in the crook of my arm.  I enjoy the fact that reading a newspaper in the wind draws on myriad skills spanning from wind surfing to origami.  

On the other hand, although I inhaled the Little House on the Prairie books as a child, I have no interest in all that harsh physical labor necessary for survival.  I’m not so much into  churning my own butter, canning foods, or washing clothes by hand.  I don’t particularly wish to plant anything aside from the occasional ornamental perennial procured at the adorable garden store that sells Buddhas of every size for your zen garden.  I like antibiotics and dishwashers.  

I have concluded that I should have spent my meaty years in the 1960’s and 1970’s.  By meaty, I mean ages 25 through 45.  The fifties housewife thing wouldn’t have worked for me and I look horrible in any sort of garment that requires a cinched waist, not to mention the fact that those bouffant hairdo’s would have made me look like a complete horse face.  But hiphugger bellbottoms, platform sandals, handkerchief sleeve blouses . . . now we’re talking.  And, as I matured into a late thirty-something mother, the seventies would have been the time to do it – what, with the rockin’ jump suits, chic flyaway collars, big slouchy purses and even bigger sunglasses to hide my puffy eyes from the previous night’s debauchery.  Wooh mama!  

Those were the days when the mothers sat in the sun smoking and drinking, baking themselves to a toasty nut brown while their kids ran around and did WHATEVER!!!  These days you are not allowed to relax.  No, you’d better be slathering sunscreen on your kid or rooting through your carryall sack for a tupperware of freshly washed grapes or on your knees digging in the sand panting upbeat words of encouragement in an animated puppet voice.  Attentive mommies make for successful, well adjusted chicklets. God forbid they learn to entertain themselves. 

I long for the days of laissez-faire child rearing.  I want the days of teetering out to your chaise on fur-trimmed kitten heels trying to keep your gin and tonic from sloshing out of your glass tumbler. Or the idea of it, anyway. Lord knows, I don’t want to be more detached from my kids. I just find our current state of hyper focused child-centric super mothering and the guilt that inevitably goes with it rather exhausting. Now if you’ll excuse me, mommy’s just going to rest her eyes for a moment.