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He yips again, and I can’t help but think he’s saying it’s dinner time for us. I know I haven’t eaten since I stuffed down an extremely healthy danish for breakfast yesterday, but asking me to make myself dinner is a bit bold for a tiny criminal.
He should stay in his lane.
Lifting him, I take us both to the kitchen where I prepare his very fancy human-grade, all real meat cutlet, going so far as to pop the patty in the microwave for a few seconds to heat it up. I serve it on a glass plate covered with cherry blossoms that Alana shipped to me for my birthday last year. As he takes dainty bites in his ski mask I wonder if I’m torturing or spoiling my dog.
It’s not entirely unlikely that the reason I’m tired all the time is because I don’t take care of myself half as well as I take care of him.
Examining the packaging for his food, I murmur, “What exactly does human-grade mean?”
Tiny dog munching noises cease, and Oxford stares up at me, puppily aghast.
“What?” I demand. “I won’t steal your food. I’ll just…you know…buy enough for both of us. Since you’ve yet to starve and this is pretty much the only thing I can wrap my mind around making most of the time, it just makes sense.”
He whimpers, trots up to my leg, and rests his little criminal head against my ankle.
I sigh and crouch. “You know something? Sometimes I swear you actually understand me. And that’s bad because mothers aren’t supposed to make their children worry.” I pet the top of his sock mask. “I’m fine. It’s just that sometimes it doesn’t feel like I’m alive. Like, I’m here… But I’m not. And I’m so tired. And I lose huge snatches of time.” If I’m honest, I barely remember my childhood, so snatches might be an understatement. I laugh. “Therapy? Oxford, I don’t need a therapist to tell me that I complain too much and should get a planner. Or, you know, that I should use one of the dozen I’ve bought throughout the years. I just have to stop being lazy. Make a plan. Do the plan.” Expect the plan to go off the rails…throw away the plan.
No.
That’s what I have been doing. That’s what I need to stop doing.
Make a plan…
Order dinner. The plan should start with ordering dinner. But this is my weekend. The only time I get where I don’t have to put on a smile and people.
Furthermore, I don’t know when—or if—Doliver’s going to contact me and make dinner plans. It could be tomorrow, since the weekend is a normal time for excursions and it’s already kind of late today. If he does contact me tomorrow, right now is my only not peopling time until the work week starts up again.
“Besides,” I mutter, “delivery fees are dumb.” I sigh. “Well, okay, not really. Like the delivery people need jobs and to be paid, but…I can pick it up myself for cheaper, and there’s really no point to that, because I have food at home.” But if I’m going to make food at home, I…
I’ll need to do the dishes.
And decide what to make.
And it’ll take so long, unless I make something unhealthy.
And…somehow…nothing I can think of sounds good.
I’m not even certain what I have in my pantry or fridge or freezer. If I open any of them, though, I know I’ll need to clean something rotten out. And then I might as well load the dish washer. But I think I need to empty it. So…it’s really best if I don’t move from this spot, isn’t it?
Oxford snuffs and trots off, leaving half his meal in his plate, which is perfectly normal for him. However, it generally only happens on those nights when I feed him half of whatever dinner I manage to make for myself.
He’s mad at me.
He knows I’m being a bad parent.
Who am I kidding?
Of course I’m a bad parent. My son is a criminal, and I turned him into one.
Before I can seriously think to search for parenting books, my phone buzzes in my pocket, so I sit on the floor beside the stove, lean back against the kitchen counter, and pull it out.
Doliver: Hi, sunshine. I know it’s short notice—nerves. lol.
Doliver: Would you like to go to dinner with me tonight?
Nerves. Lol.
I feel that deep, deeep in my bones.
