So it was Friday night, and I was getting dolled up, because I was pretty sure I was having a heart attack, and I wanted to look good when the paramedics got here. OK, well, I was pretty sure I was not having a heart attack, but you can never be sure.
My chest felt like it does when I try to do crunches and instead, because I’m vulnerable on my back, my 3-year-old
Sebastian comes running and jumps onto my chest. And my shoulder hurts and my back hurts. That’s a heart attack, right? Google says it is. So I was going to go down looking good.
Anyway, I wasn’t surprised. My heart finally had that moment when it woke up and said “WTF? (Yeah, my heart likes to use those text message abbreviations.) This is my life?” And then my brain said, in its snooty little British accent, “Why yes, Heart. Allow me to introduce you to the Real World.” And then my heart went into shock.
That’s because the last time my heart was consulted, it had been inspired by the early ’90s Gulf War to become a war correspondent, and then instead it fell for this blond-haired surfer dude and had delusions of joining forces and taking on the world. And then somewhere along the line Brain kicked in, and being British and all, he’s a bit stuffy and not a lot of fun. (Actually, my brain isn’t really British; he just puts on airs, talks in a British accent, and gets all logical and stuff. I think Brain does that to piss off the emotionally charged, somewhat hippy-ish, irrational Heart.)
So it’s with great glee that my brain presented reality to my heart recently. That reality is my husband’s job keeps sending him away, so I’ve got three super rambunctious boys to deal with on my own, I’m more tired than I’ve been in forever, I haven’t been to the gym in three days, and I just spent 15 minutes sifting through a nasty trash can looking for a lost birthday invitation at the insistence of my son.
This time, my husband is gone for a month, forcing me to admit that for all my independent ways, there are things a husband is good for. I’m sure this admission will amuse him. He’ll be gone for a month. And I will have gone insane.
I’ve always accused him of doing little around the house. Now that he’s been gone, I am realizing that I really suck at being a single mom. Without him, every “Can I?” and “What if?” and “Why?” that pops into my kids’ heads and out their mouths doesn’t get dispersed two ways—it gets funneled directly and only to me. And they like to ask things when I’m making dinner, on the phone, or in the bathroom.
I really thought that by running the household by myself, I’d finally get things organized. In my head I had decided I’d have the checkbook balanced, I’d be able to hit the gym every day, every dinner would be totally healthy. Instead, we’ve been broke since the day after payday, I burned the sweet potato fries, we had pizza and leftovers, and I haven’t had time to work out once. To top it all, the kids keep taking turns getting sick.
Then there are the Random Things You Only Hear in a House Full of Boys:
1. Why are there spitwads on the bathroom mirror?
2. Why is there a hole in every single right knee of your jeans?
3. Get your hands out of your pants.
4. Farting at the table is not a sign you like the food.
5. Neither is burping loudly.
6. Mom, look! I almost started a fire on this leaf with a magnifying glass!
7. Jake, don’t you touch my action figure.
8. Why are there spitwads on my car door?
9. Would you rather eat this Frito Pie or have a flying dog?
10. You can’t beat your brother because he tossed your backpack on your bed.
11. Put a robe on, please.
12. Flush the toilet.
13. Don’t trap the baby behind the couch.
14. Baby, don’t eat out of the trash.
15. Mom, look what I created!
Don’t get me wrong: I love my boys and my life and wouldn’t change it for anything, but it sure takes a toll on my heart. And I look around and think “Wha’ happened?” That’s when my brain has to take control of the situation and the logic kicks in and explains that this is the reality I created and that I love it and that no, I’m not really having a heart attack.
Then I remember the early ’90s and that super-cute mysterious guy I kept running into until we decided to introduce ourselves. (Meeting my husband and grunge rock were the only memorable parts of the ’90s.) I remember the pact we made to always be a team, knowing we will always accomplish more together than we could as individual players. And I remember how I felt each moment when I first looked into a giant pair of baby eyes and held a little hand and thought, “This is exactly where I want to be.” And then when I remember that, it all makes sense.
Sappy, I know, huh? And that’s exactly why Heart isn’t consulted much anymore.
Arts Editor Shelly Cone didn’t really have a heart attack, but just in case, she’s sleeping with her lipstick on. Contact her at scone@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Mar 22-29, 2012.
