This is my entry this week for the Exhibit A competition of therealljidol. I invite you to read and vote for the many fine entries. It's a "friends only" vote this week, so you have to be a member of the LJI community to vote. This week, we all chose different topics. Mine is "I Should Have Tried Harder in Home Ec." Apologies to momebie, who I'm sure is nothing like this.
They're coming for me. I hear them, shambling down the street in stylish, yet comfortable shoes. The rumble of a million wheels sounds like a buffalo herd, as the mombies lurch forward, pushing strollers with one hand and clutching recipes in the other. They smell of bleach and cookie dough.
I have barricaded myself in my house, for safety. But they fumble at the doorstep, calling brainlessly, "Play daaaate! Play daaaaaaate!" I cannot let them in, because they would box up my shelves of CDs in favor of a "toddler activity corner." They would rampage through the house, dousing everything with Lysol. They would shoo the cat off his favorite napping place: our toddler's pillow (which he is probably right to believe he owns, since he spends more time in that bed than our toddler does). They would turn our dust bunnies into "festive holiday dog sweaters" and sell them on Etsy.
They would turn all the food in the kitchen into "fun meals to tempt toddlers," which would take them only 15 minutes but me an hour and a half. They would embroider our son's initials on all of his shirts without bothering to ask if his last initial is the same as mine ("W") or my husband's ("R").
Inside, I thought I was safe, but I was wrong. They have infiltrated my computer now, inviting me to view their Pinterest boards of "Kiddie Crafts," which always seem to involve more components than a Rube Goldberg device. Their candy-colored blogs brag of their parental achievements, such as knitting hemp onesies and teaching their toddlers Sudanese. Soon, they will figure out how to Skype, and once they do, I am a goner. They will be pinging me at odd hours to invite me to Web conferences on How to Fillet the Fish You Catch with Your Hand-Made Fishing Lures or How to Teach Algebra to Five-Year-Olds.
If only I could buy myself some time. If only I could talk their language, make them believe I was one of them. Then, perhaps, their relentless assault would end, and they would find new quarry (like that mom of a newborn down the street). But woe is me: I have never been good at faking interest in things that don't excite me. And while I try to cook healthy food for my family, I don't live for planning menus. Most housework, for me, falls in the category of "do the dumb things I gotta do."
And adore him though I do, I don't find complete fulfillment from taking care of my child. He delights me and challenges me, but he is not my entire world. Hopeless though it might seem, amidst the chorus of voices urging me to spend every waking moment trying to enrich my child's life, I still believe I ought to have some "me" time.
But "me" time will mean nothing if the mombies get their clutches on me. They will suffocate me in a cloud of non-talcum baby powder, and when I emerge choking on the other side, I will be... *shudder* one of them. That's why I'm writing this note, in hopes that someone will see it in time to save the world, if not my soul. If you ever see me become a mindless drone with no thoughts of my own, who exists only to please her family, please shoot me.