I came to work this morning with a pair of nylons and one sock inside my pant leg.
Mind you, this is after donning a pair of socks and a pair of stockings correctly. I didn’t need these. They were extra. More than I needed. They were lower body-wear excess, just tagging along for the ride.
No matter how much the women (and sometimes men) in your world tried to bring to my attention the toll having a child would take on me, I didn’t listen. Why should I? I mean, they’d had their swing at the great piñata of child rearing. They raised their brood. They’d gotten their hair braiding and multiplication tables and birthday party/first Christmas/school play goodness. Why should I listen?
Turns out, the reason I figured I shouldn’t have listened is the precise reason I should have listened. They already knew. They understood the sheer, unmitigated exhaustion that comes from conceiving, bearing, delivering, and raising offspring. It’s funny that five words (well, let’s be fair. Four words. Because conceiving shouldn’t really be a part of the “fatigue” whine I have going on here) can sum up everything that makes and breaks you as a parent. It’s a consistent match up between teething and laughing. Colic and first strained peas. Waking up four times a night and learning how to crawl. Never before have I been part of something that can be so wonderfully dreadful. And the minute I hate myself for helping create the situation that is making me miserable, something happens that makes me hug myself in complete glee for the same creation circumstances.
But boy, am I tired.
Seriously. An extra pair of nylons and one extra sock (with pink mittens on it, no less).