My goal was to write for a little every day. A fine plan.
Instead of writing, I’m basically dinking around on-line, looking at craigslist for used furniture finds, signing up for every home good on-line store for their deals and discounts, trying to find a sofa that is decent and stylish and comfy that doesn’t cost as much as labor and delivery or a nice shag rug that doesn’t equal a month of baby supplies. Last night I couldn’t stop until almost 5am.
Moving and having a baby. Not a good combo. Having a baby and moving into an apartment that looked amazing when you saw it furnished by the prior tenants, and then realizing, once the place is empty, that they were really just masters of disguise and you are moving into a semi-crappy place with no kitchen lighting, a barking dog, very young neighbors who you hear tromping up the stairs at 1am (or 4am) and then blasting rock music…yuck. I’ve never felt more in need of STUFF, and my seasonal job comes to a close soon. I’m staring down the barrel of almost 4 months with no income (unless there’s a huge job demand for women who are 7 months pregnant?), and there could be so much to cover up and paint, and sew, and hang up and decorate, and install and buy and buy and buy. You get the point, and I’m getting that lump in my throat and pukey feeling in my gut…
I hate to complain. I do. I really do. Things could be so much worse. And I keep telling myself and husband “look at our parents! Their stories of when they were a new family and the shitholes and circumstances they lived in when they had their first kids, and how fondly they look back and laugh at that time in their life, and how hard they worked and how far they have come!” Then I remember my parents were TWENTY FIVE when they had me. We are almost 40.
I thought 40 was the new 30. Mmmmmmmm, nope. I feel like almost 40. I’m feeling like I SHOULD be 30 with these problems.
I think about how when my parents were my age, I was in the 7th grade and we were taking vacations to Florida in the winter and getting big loots from Santa at Christmas and an underground pool put in the backyard for summer. I’m 37, couldn’t find my sunglasses today, slept from 5am-11am, then cried into my cereal while my mom scrambled to give me sheets from her linen closet so I didn’t have to buy them.
My husband and I both went to prestigious universities. Universities that win awards, universities that, when I mention where I received my undergraduate degree, people say “Ohhhh, you must be really smart”. We met in graduate school, getting MFAs from a top acting program in the US of A. And I can’t sleep because part of me feels like we have no business having a kid. We are actors who gamble with jobs. With $150,000 in student debt between the two of us, and a little bit of savings in the bank (because my husband had a Taco Bell commercial recently run (i.e. LUCK), and I sold a bunch of diamond jewelry from an old admirer (i.e. more luck), why did we decide to breed?
Oh, because I’m getting older. And we want a family.
My mom has trouble sleeping sometimes, but I’m sure it’s mostly because she worries about her two daughters who were privileged enough to pursue their dreams and choose artistic lives in the theatre, and subsequently make poverty wages.
Anyone else out there feel like they are failing miserably at this life thing? That it should’ve gotten a little better by now? That the white picket fence and grass yard should be the view from the front living room? The college fund began? Like they might not be able to provide for their kids like we were provided for?