There are a couple of moments in my academic career that I can remember, where I felt the stress of, at that moment, impossibility. One, was 11th grade math after foolishly skipping too many classes in 10th grade math, where quadratic formulas, factoring and polynomials came out of what seemed like nowhere and numbers were suddenly grouped in brackets within brackets with all kinds of foreign divots and lines. The other, was my final year in University where I had to come face to face with William Wordsworth’s, philosophical, poetic, 400 plus page, 1805 version of The Prelude, and his revisions in a book of the same length 45 years later. But not just having to read it and understand it, which was a feat in itself. But seeking and having to find Wordsworth’s ultimate ‘truth,’ his authentic ‘self,’ as one poem is fraught with raw feelings and emotions while the other, is altered by more contemplative thought.
But prior to that, in my elementary years and after, in the ‘real world,’ in a very honest sort of way, things seemed to come easy for me. (Not counting any kind of strenuous physical exertion). I was pretty much the kid in class who sat silent but knew every answer to the other kid’s questions when they had their hand up. I was the girl who only needed to be told once in the workforce and learned quickly from my mistakes. And as I got older, things that people would complain about that was hard, I felt the opposite. Learning an instrument? Easy. A foreign language? Fine. Throwing a wedding? A cinch. Working 15 hour days? Great. Moving to a new city thousands of miles away and starting from scratch? A freaking breeze. Even childbirth in retrospect wasn’t difficult per say, but rather more painful. My point? I’m not trying to sound conceited, I swear.
What I’m trying to say is, raising a child – is, oh my gosh. HARD. It doesn’t even stand a chance in comparison.
Which comes to why I haven’t been blogging these days or weeks rather. I found myself making excuses that my life has been so busy, but really, it’s just been hard. Amplified by a hundred being alone in a different country with no family or many friends, a husband that works long and late, car-less most days in the biggest car-needed suburban city, with a spicy 2 year old. But this is not a ‘woe is me,’ post. Nor is it a sappy written product of ‘mommy burn-out.’
It is a post about how silly hard my days have been. Silly, being the only word I can think of for now.
Like for instance, tonight, Els fought me on brushing her teeth before bed. She refused to open her mouth, kept shaking her head and saying, ‘No. I don’t want to brush my teeth.’ I used every tactic in the book to try and get her to concede. Until finally something worked. What made today different than every other day? Nothing. It’s the same every night. Every single night.
She also fought me on pants. Wearing pants that is. What made today different than every other day? Nothing. It’s the same every day. Every single day. We could make a TV series based just on that. A suspenseful 20 minute episode of ‘Els and The Pants.’ Does she put them on at the end or doesn’t she?
More to add to the battlefield. Eating vegetables. Changing diapers. Taking a bath. Going to sleep. Staying asleep. Letting me sleep. Ha!
All in all, I’m not really rested, but ready nevertheless to start blogging again. I guess I just needed that extra kick of hot sauce Els seems to carry with her to give me my mojo back. Her quotes alone lately…
She is a character, pant-less, diaper-less and all. And I love her. And thankfully, she tells me so too. Every day. Every night.