It happened again tonight. I was so close to the finish line, like a runner hitting the wall during the final stretch of a marathon. I can only assume that’s what it feels like since I’ve never actually run a marathon. I did, however, walk a 5K once, so that must count for something, right?
So, there I was at 6:45 p.m., juggling a baby who discovered the joys of turning the toilet into a water play station and a preschooler who was demanding I set up Play-Doh. Just as I was multitasking like a parent pro, my phone chimed with a text message.
NO!
“Sorry, honey, I’m running late.”
Ugh.
On most days, I’m a level-headed person. I tackle the shopping, the hauling, the diaper changes, and the endless cleaning with a degree of cheerfulness. At least I try to keep a smile on my face. But there’s only so much I can handle when I’m pushed to the edge. For me, 7 p.m. marks the point where I’m officially done. Mentally and physically drained from the monotony of parenting. Coincidentally, it’s also when my partner usually walks through the door. But when he’s running late, I go into full-on DEFCON 1 mode. My thoughts spiral like this:
- This cannot be real. Why is this happening? Of course, this is when the kids decide to showcase their wildest antics: one might eat glue, another could have an accident and want to show me, or they might just decide that feeding the fish Cheetos from the toilet is a splendid idea.
- How on earth am I supposed to whip up dinner while entertaining these little rascals? Ironically, they’re just as fed up with me as I am with them. I promise, I’m not a terrible mom. But after being “on” for 14 hours straight, I’m out of ideas, answers, and energy.
- How late is late? Is it 10 minutes? 15? An hour? If it drags on for an hour, I might just lock myself in the bathroom with the baby at the 59-minute mark. He loves toilets, so we’d be fine. The older kids will just have to figure it out without turning the house into a war zone.
- It has been 12 hours since I last spoke to an adult. The last conversation was with the cashier, and I rambled on about my childhood memories, only to realize he didn’t understand a word I said. He was a fantastic listener though; I wonder if he’s working tomorrow.
- I can handle this! I’ve been managing all day—what’s a bit longer? I am so fortunate to have a partner to share this journey with. But wait, what if he leaves me? What if that’s why he’s late? What if he’s found someone younger and more put-together? She probably has amazing hair extensions, too—everyone seems to have those now. Sigh.
“Hey, darling, what’s for dinner?”
“Broiled Salmon, Eau de Toilette. The baby helped with the recipe.”
“Really? He’s finally over his toilet obsession?”
“Not even close!”
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In summary, when my partner is running late, my thoughts fluctuate between panic and determination. As I navigate the chaos of parenting solo, I remind myself that I can handle anything that comes my way—at least until I can finally catch a break!