There are three fully-formed and terribly-terrible posts in my WordPress drafts folder, some thousand words long each, that I cannot bring myself to post. One is about the recent successful visits I’ve had to the Vegie Bar, another on making new friends as a parent. And lordy, they are boring. I even got bored writing them. The problem is, of course, that I am boring.
Don’t feel you have to reassure me that I am, in fact, glorious and interesting and hilarious, because sometimes I am all of those things, just as you are. Just like how I am so peppy at work you could put me in a grinder, after which I go home and fall on my face on the couch while the Rocket yanks my arm and says, “Mummy, wake up!”, I can occasionally be interesting. But I am not.
This morning, the Rocket slept in until 9 – it sounds amazing, but actually it makes me think she is sick – and then we had breakfast while watching Yo Gabba Gabba, washed our faces, brushed our teeth, got dressed, and read some books. This seemingly brief set of instructions for becoming human in the morning took us two and a half hours. When Teach comes home and night, I tell him all about it. How she took her own socks off. How we pointed at all the different features (eyes, hair – PURPLE hair! – ears, etc) on the unicorn Pillow Pet she inherited from her cousin. How time is no longer what it used to be. We didn’t leave the house until eleven thirty. We walked to our beloved coffee shop, though sometimes I had to carry her and run while she shouted, “RUN! DINOSAUR COMING! ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEBEN NINE DINOSAUR!” We had our coffee and babycino, and when our friends at the cafe asked the Rocket how she was, she spent five minutes talking about how daddy was on a bus, because he caught a bus three weeks ago to go to camp. The conversation goes like this: “Daddy, on a bus. Big bus! Daddy gone. Camp. Bus! Big bus! Toot toot! Daddy gone on bus.” Shuffle those words around until one person in the conversation gets distracted by something else. After we finished our drinks, we walked up to the corner to see if the digger on the empty block of land being cleared was still sleeping (as it had been during the long weekend) or if it was awake. Happily, it was awake, and doing some very nifty digging and moving around of dirt. We spent maybe fifteen minutes there, just watching the digger move dirt. Don’t get me wrong, I find it all very impressive, and one of the workers came over to say hi, and the dude driving the digger waved, and it was all very perfect for the Rocket. Every thirty seconds she would turn to me and say, “Digger not sleeping. Awake!” and then turn back to watching with this serious expression. Eventually my arms got tired from holding her and we waved goodbye and she said, “Yours drive digger!” because she can’t say me or mine or I, and then we walked home, and she told me seventy billion more times that the digger was awake, and while I took off her shoes inside she said, “Yours sleepy,” so I put her to bed, and now I’m writing this. And aren’t you thrilled? Isn’t it so exciting? Gosh, I hope the fight over the movie rights isn’t too violent.
I could probably say something very intelligent about how having a kid can make you stop and appreciate things. And, well, yes, it does. I’d never really just watched a digger do its thing before, and actually, it is very cool. It’s nice to not be in a hurry on days when you don’t have anything planned. But it’s boring. I’m boring. I have no interesting stories. I hate hearing myself speak when Teach comes home and I tell him what we did. I’ve already talked about it a thousand times during the day when I prompt her to think and recall what we’ve done. “Who came over yesterday? Do you remember? You read a book about a boat? And what did you do with daddy? You went on a walk? What snack did he get you?” And then we read the same eleven books we read yesterday, and if I have it in me I put on different voices from yesterday, and rinse, repeat, again, every day, for eternity.
I could, should and will say that I wouldn’t give up these days with her for anything. I am glad I work a couple of days a week, because the break, where I feel like an actually useful member of society with something useful to give and some minimal earning power, means I can appreciate the time I do have with her. And hey, sometimes it’s so exciting and wonderful I can’t even believe it’s my reality; sometimes the beautiful soft moments are exactly what I need. But mostly, I’m boring, I’m so boring I can’t believe that I thought I’d have enough to say in a blog more than once a month, I’m so boring that my own posts put me to sleep, I’m so boring that I can’t even think of a way to end this sentence, or this post. But I’ll hit publish anyway, just to tell you that parents can be boring, and we know it, and we’re sorry, and one day it might end, and we’ll be interesting again, and hopefully have remembered how.