smileytraveler

I feel bad. Bad for sitting there in silence. Bad for the patronizing smile I gave them when they came over and waved “hi” with little hands. Bad for looking bored. Bad for feeling bored while looking bored. Bad for thinking over and over again, I don't belong here. Bad for smiling genuinely only when the doggies came out to play. Bad for cringing at the chaos. Bad for imagining that every waking moment is chaos. Bad for getting up to take a walk so I could think about something else. Bad for getting utterly depressed on my walk to think this is what my life would be. Bad for getting grossed out when the baby licked me. Bad for wishing desperately that we could talk about something else besides babysitters, schools, and all the cool things the kids do. Bad I didn't really care what cool things other people's kids could do. Bad for wanting to get to know them better without being interrupted every two seconds by someone waddling off, someone falling, someone needing more food to stuff into their face, someone crying, someone hitting, someone...

Bad that I'd go insane. Bad I couldn't stare at the flowers, trees, and playing doggies and just drift off. Bad that I'd not know quiet and peace for a long, long time. Bad that I'd have to wake up tomorrow and do it all over again. Bad that we'd be expected to go to a special place to play where everything is powder-coated and perfectly geometric.

Bad that I probably look like such a bitch right now and I'm probably embarrassing my best friend in front of her friends. Bad that I wish this blanket weren't covered in Cheerios and cheese.

Bad that I feel like I'll have to practice for next time...in front of a mirror.

Me: Wow! How old is he? Her: He's sixteen months! Me: (Big smile, head tilt.) Wow! That's so interesting!

But I really have nothing to say, nothing to add. I can't relate. I can't ask questions because what if I accidentally give away my insincerity? I can't ask questions because the answers aren't interesting.

I tell people there are very good reasons I'm not a mother. They don't seem to take me seriously. Just going to a park and watching the dozens of little bodies (and their moms) depresses me.

I'm the broken one. Not them. Not you.