Chapter 41
Liz, February 19
Have I mentioned I hate cleaning? Typical cleaning, like running a vacuum or doing laundry, those are no big deal. But moving the couch and scrubbing cabinets you never use, I hate that. That’s what I’m doing today. Matt and I have decided my house, with its two bedrooms, isn’t large enough for all of us. So I’m cleaning the entire place from top to bottom in order to make it ready to sell. I’m also packing all my stuff to bring it over to Matt’s three-bedroom place.
Part of me is completely annoyed at the idea that someone else’s belongings are going to occupy the same space as mine. Of course I know that is ridiculous. This is someone who I am dating seriously and I should be glad he’s taking this step. Still, I can’t help muttering under my breath, “Oh sure, everything I own now lives in a box. Wonderful.”
I’ve been thinking a lot about how different life will be in a year, how could I not? I imagine the three of us—Matt, me, and some faceless and genderless adorable baby yet to be—happily sitting around the living room watching some family-appropriate TV show together. Or Matt and I will be happily traipsing through a mall, pushing a stroller and talking about how ridiculously happy we are. Maybe I’ll even sneak a donut when he’s not looking and blame it on the baby’s cravings.
The baby needs a great Dad, all babies do. I can imagine Matt holding a baby, talking softly to it, and helping to sing the baby to sleep. I can imagine him teaching a bigger child how to ride a bike, throwing baseballs around, even holding onto a crying toddler and whispering, “Shhh, it’s okay, Daddy’s here.” I want all that for my child, I really do. I even picture myself in the middle of it, doing a little sarcastic commentary: “Yes, Daddy, that’s exactly how you’re supposed to catch the ball… not like me.”
But part of me cannot reconcile that Matt will be like that all the time. He talks cloying sweet and annoying baby talk to my stomach whenever he gets the chance, but I feel like I want more than that. Maybe I’m the problem. Maybe I’m worried I won’t measure up as a Mother? Or maybe I just want a tiny partner-in-crime who lets me eat cookies for breakfast while he’s at work.
No, I want to do all those things. I desperately want to hold this child, raise this little being into a kind and loving person. Maybe I’m just paranoid. Maybe I’ll sneak in some sarcastic one-liners for the kid just to keep it real.
Aren’t I supposed to be feeling the urge to clean? Why do I hate this so much? Making room for another human, I’ll just have to get used to that. I chuckle to myself. I’m going to have to make room for this tiny human pretty soon, might as well clean it all now. Step one to a happy family… cleaning. Step two… survive the next 18 years without losing my mind.
I resume my scrubbing with a new sense of purpose — and a tiny smirk — because deep down I know that somewhere between all the folded towels and polished cabinets, I’ll sneak in some Liz-style mischief. Maybe it’s harmless chaos; maybe it’s teaching the baby to roll its eyes at Dad’s overly cheerful baby talk. Either way, this little human is going to have a mother who won’t let life get boring.