I debated publishing this post as it is just the text that happened to appear when I fell asleep at my computer and my face smashed into my keyboard. But being as it is something that is close to my heart, I thought it was important to put it out there, into the land of 1’s, 0’s and Tron battles that we call the internet.
You will *probably* never see the headline, “Local mother hospitalized for exhaustion.” My exhaustion won’t be brought to the attention of Harvey Levin, nor will it be worthy of top story status and pithy commentary on Facebook. I’m not sure if it’s because I never made a sex tape, or because my two-year-old makes a lousy publicist.
But even if you ask my friend
s, they are too tired to remember when I told them about my exhaustion. And, in fact, I am fairly certain I don’t have a provision in my health insurance to cover medical treatment for exhaustion. So, like lice at a grade school hat swap, exhaustion finds and clings to moms like me everyday. Squealing with delight each time we get all gussied up and someone asks how long we’ve had the flu. Laughing every time we fall asleep before we can make it through the late news weather report. Creeping around every corner and waiting to see if we dare to finish that second glass of wine.
But let me assure the Brooke Muellers and Lindsay Lohans of the world who are found slumped over after an “intensive jewelry making session,” or when they don’t wake up after working for (gasp) six weeks straight – ladies, you haven’t seen exhaustion until you have spent 24 hours alone with my children. And trust me, staying up all night long to shove your boob in someone’s mouth is much less glamorous and much more tiring when there isn’t a DJ around, you’re completely sober, and that someone is bald, toothless, and under the age of one.
And let’s not talk about dealing with a toddler at the same time. Suffice it to say, I am about ready to use my seven-week-old to beat my two-year-old with.
True exhaustion is one day finding your deepest heart’s desire is to lock yourself in a room with an Ambien and flannel pajamas. A room where no one is screaming for your boobs or your help cleaning their ass. A room where you can have use of both hands and you can finish your Diet Coke before the ice melts. Pardon me, I just got lost in that fantasy.
But Lilo & Brooke, I wouldn’t trade your exhaustion for mine, even if it came with your pre-wrecked Porsche.
An Astin Martin? Maybe we’ll talk.