Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Maxed Out

The title refers to my capacity for having more children, not to my credit card, which I paid off and then shredded in August, thank you very much.

I adore my little girl. I leave work early, am dreadfully rude in my haste to catch buses and metros to get me home as quickly as possible--because every second counts, right? And when I’m home, my little wee one and I read and paint and dance and play, cook and sing, walk and slide. It’s not a question of love.

It’s like this: yesterday I spent the morning doing Pesakh shopping at Ikea with two friends who each have two children. Girls about my daughter’s age, and boys they still breastfeed. Who is the mother who lost a child during checkout? Who is the mother, who, upon having the child found for her, realized that she had also lost the child’s coat? And later, while lunching at Pita Plus, who was the mother who misjudged her daughter’s appetite and food preferences?

Why, moi, of course. The mother of one.

It’s not that I have more going on than they do, so I can’t say I was more distracted. My more fertile friends also balance work outside the home and childcare. And one of them has a husband who travels during the week, so she does the bulk of it alone. The other is remodeling the bathroom using contractors, and, well, need I say more?

Okay, I HAD just returned from a weekend with my parents in Texas, hanging with my daddy as he recovered from surgery (thank G-d) the colon cancer doesn’t’ seem to have spread). But it wasn’t like I was DOING anything. Since my parents went vegan to enhance their chances of remaining cancer-free (both of them are cancer survivors), I didn’t even have to worry about food and kashrut. I caught up on reading and chatting with my Dad, who was still very weak from surgery and hung out on the sofa.

And my girl? She played outside with her cousins, ages 2, 4 and 7, from the time the dew dried off the grass until the sun was about to set. All she needed from me was food, drink, potty/diaper stuff, and the occasional kiss to the booboo.

Hey, wait a minute…

(And anyway, that doesn’t explain Ikea).