A clean kitchen, vacuumed floors, and dinner plans safely say I’ve forgotten how to do that. However, I’ve finally acquired time management skills. A quality that one of my college professors would constantly berate me over. “Mrs. Bottlesoup, if you’d only stop procrastinating, your work would be worthy of a doctorate on its own.” At the time, I appreciated his commentary as half-scolding, half-ego boosting. But now that I’ve mastered the art of wise decision making, I have only one question: where do I get my grade in life?
You see, in college, I could avoid the reading, the research, and even the writing and still make it by with an A-. Although I obnoxiously (and frequently) credited my great grades to innate genius, I regularly toed the line of anxiety and depression. Would the next paper be as good as the last? How long could I keep up the IQ charade before finally admitting that I feel fucking stupid every day?
The gig is up. And what has killed my cockiness? Parenting. A two month old infant has crushed my confidence. And it’s sad. But it’s also beautiful.
Monster has broken me. I can’t be a wild, free spirit anymore. I’m not 21. There are no more spontaneous joints, road-trips, or nights of alcohol-induced wonder. There’s no more. There’s no more “what if”. There’s no more “should I”. This is my life. This is my family. This is my home.
And, so, I have to make it the best one. There’s no excuses. No “oops” and deal with it later ignorance. Because life piles up. And it’s scarier than an Oxford syllabus.