The parent of last resort

12 Nov

That’s me. And I don’t like it!

All I hear is

“Where’s the . . . ”

“Are there any . . .”

“Can he . . . ”

“Will he . . .”

“Did he . . .”

On and on and on.

Paradoxically, I sometimes get mad when I am not asked these things.

How and ever, I always, always, always get mad when asked these things by the hubby. That little vein on the side of my head starts to throb, to the tune of “You are a parent too, you are a parent too, you are a parent too . . .” On and on and on. Until I explode.

I get it. I am here with the little turtle 12 hours a day while he’s at work. He’s shouldering the burden of providing for us while I raise our son the way we want him raised. I may even be a bit controlling about things, little things, even. Things that don’t really matter. Nevertheless, my ire is raised when he wanders around the house, like a lodger, asking where things are when they are where they’ve always been if he just opens his eyes! And asking if it’s time for the turtle to go to bed. Or not noticing that his nappy needs changing. I can live with these things though. They cause only minor spikes in my blood pressure. I get over it, eventually. (Did I ever tell you about how easy I am to live with? A dream. That’s me. As if you can’t tell.)

Being the parent of last resort though, that means I’m always on duty. Always.

I wanted the hubby to be in charge of putting the turtle to bed. I thought it would be a nice time for them to bond. Have time together without me sticking my oar in, or taking control (because even though I don’t want to be in charge all of the time it is very hard to relinquish that control). They need time together, without me.

It’s not working though. The turtle cries and cries and cries when daddy tries to put him to bed. Daddy doesn’t like to see him upset. He lasts about five minutes. So then it’s my turn. As the last member of the team standing, I feel an obligation to stick it out to the end. Singing “Twinkle, twinkle” umpteen times. Rocking him. Whatever it takes. Even when it feels like my legs are about to go from under me. Even when I’m so tired I can’t even speak. Even when he’s crying. You’ll hear me singing “Twinkle, twinkle little star . . .” On and on and on. Until my head explodes. I’m the parent of last resort, you see.


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