The Continuing Adventures of Middle-Aged Eloise
Ooooooooooooooooooo I absolutely love parenting
A year ago I posted some amateur cartoons on Instagram titled “Adventures of Middle-Aged Eloise!” Kay Thompson’s book has always been one of my favorites, and it tracks that I would identify with its 6 year-old protagonist, who is convinced that her inner fantasy life is interesting enough to warrant an entire book.
Since I very much need to procrastinate from my other projects, here’s the sequel no one asked for:
I wake up feeling tired tired tired. I fell asleep with my headphones on listening to a rawther upsetting podcast about someone who got mauled by a grizzly bear. I also drank wine in bed again and forgot to brush my teeth. Nevertheless I skibble downstairs in my slippers to make breakfast so my children won’t starve starve starve.
I have two kids which is enough. Their names are Sam and Max. Sam is a preteen who is taller than me and will only eat foods advertised as “flamin’ hot.” Max is six and requires at least one new lego set a month or he will die. I am their personal chef, their housekeeper, their executive assistant and the only person who forces them to bathe, so you can see they are an extremely lot of extra work.
Mornings are the most terriblest stresses. We have to get both kids to school in two different directions. Then I have to listen to podcasts about gruesome crimes while cleaning my kitchen. Then I have to try to write a novel or a screenplay or something so I can revive my career, for Lord’s sake. Sometimes I give up and lie in bed with an LED mask that’s supposed to help my wrinkles. The dog absolutely hates this.
Here’s what I like to do: Nothing.
Here’s what I can do:
Drink coffee
Fret
Laundry
Sit for hours in a position that is definitely not good for my spine
Look at my phone
Think about starting a new skincare routine
Google diseases
And here’s the thing of it: Most of the time I’m dissociating.
I pick Max up from school at 2:30. When he sees me he demands some candy or a cake pop or something, because I’ve conditioned him like Pavlov’s dog to expect sugar every day. Then he scoots down the street and I run after him thinking about how long it’s been since he’s eaten a vegetable. When he gets home he likes to watch YouTube, which is why he knows so much about conspiracy theories, and also how to land a deez nuts joke.
When Sam gets home he runs up to his room and would prefer that we not speak to him until dinner, thank you very much. I ask him through the door if he has any homework and he says no, and I say “ok but r u sure?” and he says “NO, Mom.” And I say “You mean you aren’t sure?” and then he locks the door and turns on loud music probably made by someone born after Y2K. Oooooooooo I absolutely love parenting.
Every night I have to call Room Service, by which I mean calling my older son on his phone to make him come downstairs and eat dinner. The record for how long everyone has been seated at the table at the same time is 30 seconds.
At bedtime Max likes to listen to Jim Gaffigan, a stand-up comedian who doesn’t curse but who has nevertheless introduced him to many new words. Unfortunately by this hour I am generally too tired to care.
Maybe tonight I’ll listen to “Rain on a Tin Roof” instead of a mauling. And drink 8 oz. of water. That should fix everything.
Oh my Lord. There’s so much to do.
Tomorrow I think I’ll think I’ll write an angry email to the New York Times lobbying for CLIT to be accepted in Spelling Bee.
I have had that exact same impulse to write the NYT about Clit. DO IT!
This is a deadly accurate account of what much of parenting is like. (At first I didn’t recognize Max in the picture because he is wearing underwear.)