On Saturday, my anger boiled to the point where I didn’t even want to celebrate Father’s Day. I spent the bulk of the morning ranting inside my head over everything my husband has or hasn’t done. Who chose the stroller? Me. Who chose the birth announcements? Me. And there’s the sore subject of breast-feeding and I’m playing this World Cups tournament alone.
I was this woman:
Only, erase the jewelry and replace the hip retro hairdo with a half-done ponytail. And that slight smile she’s donning? Forget it. Switch it out with a look of murderous rage.
I had to run to my place of solace: the soothing aisles of Target. Ahh, consumerism.
Because I am breast-feeding, I had to be placed on a low-hormone birth control which cost me 70 dollars. And that’s after insurance covered it.
Looking at my son is birth control enough. I mean, I know my sex education pretty well. Nathan is the result of my husband’s sperm, my eggs, and that bottle of Mad Dog 20/20.
My nephew Jesse flew in to accompany my mom back to Saipan and live with her there. But that is not the story I want to tell.
During his first night here, he walked into the office to find me propped up against the wall and my breasts attached to two loudly whirring pumps. He shut the door on the scene and I heard him outside saying, “Whoaaa…”
My husband entered later to say, “Why did you do that to him? He’ll never be the same!”
My mom flew back to Saipan today. This means I will not be able to see her first thing in the morning and be offered oatmeal or cereal or tea. I will not have someone to discuss the casts of Golden Girls or Little House on the Prairie like they’re real people. Who will start conversations with, “You know si Dorothy said…”?
Now who am I going to convince that Walker, Texas Ranger is not the first, middle and last name of Chuck Norris’ character? Or that America is staging a war on terrorism, not “tellerism”? We’re against terrorists, not the people who work at Bank of America.
I’m going to crawl into the fetal position now and return to being a blubbering fool. Someone call the waaahmbulance.