Mental Hygeine

I used to be an interesting person, I swear. Oh, not tremendously interesting, not, like, Michelle Obama-interesting or Charlie Kaufman-interesting or the-guy-who-invented-spray-cheese-interesting, but I thought about stuff. I had things to say about the stuff I thought about. One year I even took some filmmaking classes and made a movie about stuff I was thinking about—namely, how weird straight men are around each other—a movie that gay people in Miami at least seemed to like.

But now, well. I feel tapped out. Dried up. All done. Anyone bored enough to spy on my Google search history would discover that I spend all my mental energy seeking out things like “Fisher-Price bouncy seat replacement toys” and “full-figured nursing bras” and “tips for taking infants to the movies.”

In my darker moments I’m tempted to believe that I’m not worthy of pursuing anything bigger or broader than this—my new tiny circle of babycare.

Last night Dr. Husband and I had a fight in which I bemoaned the fact that the baby would be due for a nap right before her bedtime, thereby fucking up her bedtime. Dr. Husband suggested that we could just try to keep her awake longer, and because I’d spent my precious reading-while-nursing time reading Unhealthy Sleep Habits = Unhealthy Devil Children (or somesuch) I was all, “No! That’s the equivalent of depriving her of food, you evil man!” and he was all, “I’m sorry, but I do not spend all day being aware of her sleep needs, what with intubating people and having to yell 'Clear!' all day at work.”

Okay, I’m paraphrasing slightly.

His point was that it takes actual mental energy to keep track of all this baby jazz, and I’m the parent appointed with said keeping track. (He is the parent appointed with making as much money in one day as I will make teaching a six-week creative writing class.)

And I realized—well, I realized I need to get out more or I will become one of those moms who funnels all her creative energies into planning birthday parties for her children and becomes bitter and resentful when her children fail to thank her. Even though they’re not yet verbal.

I want to be a good mom. And I want to create things other than my child (adorable and compelling though she is) and marital strife with Dr. Husband (lively and compelling though that is, too).

I don't feel anywhere close to being able to make another movie, but maybe I could make an essay or two? Or some art out of Triscuits and spray-cheese?