Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mentionnnnnn…..
I remember reading somewhere once where someone said this song (My Way, by Frank Sinatra, for those of you who didn’t have a college roommate whose boyfriend was weirdly obsessed with him) was The Most annoying song in the world.
And I’m afraid I have to agree.
It’s not because it isn’t a good tune, or because he isn’t a great singer, or because the big band in the background doesn’t ebb and swell at all the right times until the big forties-esque climax. No, it’s annoying because, ah hell, who doesn’t have regrets?
Darting glance around the room.
We all do, right?
I usually have enough to fill my own Frank Sinatra tune before breakfast. Being a wife and a mother and a gaijin in a foreign country, just bring a human being on the bad side of the womb sets a girl up to make a whole bunch of bad decisions.
Some are big. (He showed up at my door and asked me not to come to Japan, and I didn’t know what to say. And those of you who knew me when: it’s probably not the He you’re thinking of.) Some are humorous. (Like junior high hair.) Most are little and tedious and accumulate to result in tension headaches worsened by too much caffeine.
I had a horrible morning the other day. It was the first day both kids were going to be in school since winter vacation started a lifetime ago. I overslept a little. HRH had added stuff to the laundry. Sister woke up when I woke up, whiney and clingy, instead of sleeping for twenty more minutes so I could get breakfast done in peace. Me First had gotten out the iPod, again, without permission, again, and was playing games, again, instead of getting ready for school. Again. He had a crying fit; she had a crying fit. It was pretty awful.
Me First went to bed healthy and happy enough last night, but now the poor lamb is sleeping fitfully beside me, with a fever over 39 degrees.
I should have recognized the horrible morning for what it was, a sign that he was coming down with something. It’s an established pattern with him, and if I didn’t get so caught up in the moment…. It seems like I should be able to disengage, step back, ask the right questions, and figure out that he has a tickle in his throat, or he’s feeling feverish, or he’s out of sorts, or something.
Instead it feels like we’ve been battling each other for two days when he probably was just feeling bad and unable to express it.
Which brings me to today’s regret/confession (regression? Nah, that’s something else.)
On Me First’s third birthday, I took him and four-month-old Sister to the Anpanman Museum in Yokohama. And he was AWFUL. Whiney, argumentative, uncooperative, spit-out-your-food kind of awful. I lost it, yelled at him, and took them home. Great way to spend a birthday, right?
And the next day he broke out in chicken pox.
And then I was the one who seemed awful.
And it looks like I still haven’t learned to read the signs. Maybe I should make some up for him:
I am acting like a turd this morning because A) something bad happened at school that I don’t want you to know about. B) I’m constipated and I don’t want you to know about it. C) I woke up on the wrong side of the bed and I don’t want you to know about it. D) I don’t feel great and for some reason I can’t tell you (maybe I don’t want you to know about it.)
I guess we’ll have to update the options to make them more age appropriate as he grows, although that list would work pretty well for my husband as well.