I won’t lie: There were jobs in my past where I would wake up in the morning, see that I was already going to be late, groan and think “What excuse could I give them today?” There were jobs that threatened if I was late once more, I’d be put on probation. So when I awoke ten minutes before clock-in time, I wouldn’t call in late – I’d call in sick. “Better late than never” was not part of their philosophy.

I was also infamous among my friends for sleeping a lot. A LOT. As in, 12 or 14 hours a whack. One day I slept 20 hours in a row. I was mocked, I was insulted. But I was well-rested.

Then I became a mother.

Mothers – single parents or not – are not allowed such luxuries as sick days and sleeping in. My toddler gets up the same time every morning, no matter what time I eventually fall asleep, or for how long. There’s no baby snooze alarm, there’s no “just another hour.” There’s no wheedling excuses for not doing your job. Get up and take care of business. End of story.

I have felt like hammered manure for ten days now. The Weather Channel reports that the pollen level is “astronomical,” and I am suffering a brutal assault. Despite a trip to the doctor and the emergency room, I am still miserable. My throat is on fire, my ears are throbbing, my sinuses are pounding. I wake up on the hour all night.

And I get up every day at 6:45 a.m. to the musical beckoning of “Mommeeeee… come get meeee…” from the other room.

Before I had a child, I used to always point out that one of the reasons I had no interest in reproducing was the locked-in finality of being a parent. You can always quit a job, get divorced, move. But man, you’re stuck with that kid! 

And it goes further. You’re stuck with that JOB. I can’t be lazy anymore (well, as much). I have eaten walnuts and canned green beans for dinner before, because I was too lazy/tired/unmotivated to cook. But I can’t do that for my daughter. I won’t. And when she wakes up, I have to get up and make her breakfast. There’s no calling out sick.

I think this is that thing I keep hearing about: “being responsible.” Glad I finally learned it – better late than never.

(With apologies to Prince for borrowing the title of his song…) 

My daughter has not as yet been afflicted with the short-attention-span menace that seems to affect so many of the younger generations.  She can still sit and stare, as if for the first time, at the same cartoons on PBS, the same “Thomas the Tank Engine” video, the same books, over and over.  Every day.

Don’t get me wrong; we buy her new stuff.  New books, new videos, new stuffed animals.  But time and again she falls back on the familiar ones, the tried-and-true rote play that seems to entertain her the most.  And while her minimalism and ease of self-entertainment is a nice concept, in reality, it makes me – and the other caregivers who have to endure the monotony – want to run screaming from the house.  As in, “if I have to watch the same Christmas-themed episode of ‘Thomas’ one more time, I’m gonna climb a clocktower with a high-powered rifle.”

I jest, of course.  Mostly.

I suppose this should be an expected downside to the mantra of “children crave routine” that’s been drilled into so many parents’ heads.  Yes, it’s nice to have a predictable framework for the day.  But when the minutiae in said framework is the same, all the time, it gets a bit hard to take for the over-2 set.  I love spending time with my daughter playing with her stuffed animals, but how many conversations can I have that are “ ‘Hello, Red Bird, how are you?’ ‘I’m fine, Ducky, how are you?’ ‘Let’s go to my house.’ ‘OK.’ ” 

She wants to play with the same blocks over and over.  She wants to go for the same walk outside.  She wants me to sing the same songs every night at bedtime.  Yes, I am glad she finds comfort and calm in these things.  And I’m certainly not worried I have a future “Rainman” on my hands.  But it will be a big change in my life when that inevitable switch is thrown and she, like most other kids, is no longer satisfied with any diversion for more than a minute.  Soon enough, the Consumerism Beast will rear its ugly head, no matter how much I try to prevent it from happening.

In the meantime, I will sing “You Are My Sunshine” for the millionth time.  I will hide the stuffed animals in the same locations.  And I will worry that I’m finding The Man in the Yellow Hat from “Curious George” strangely attractive…