Cinderella

5/20/10

Herr X’s big office party was on a Friday night. None of my usual dresses would do: Breastfeeding has turned my already ample bosom into something appropriate only at Italian prime minister Silvio Berlusconi’s house; certainly not suitable for an office party in a city where shades of gray are considered fancy.

Deep in the “fat clothes” section of my closet, I found something that wouldn’t poke someone’s eye out and gave me the semblance of a waist. I was all dressed up and, for a change, had somewhere to go.

That afternoon, Herr X discovered that spouses were actually not invited (in his defense, the invitation did not explicitly include me). He offered to stay home, but he deserves a night out, too. So he brushed off his tuxedo, shined up his shoes, gooped up his hair and off he went.

Call me Cinderella. No ball for me.

It turned out to be several hours of speeches and awards, and I was happy to get the sleep anyway. But it once again spotlighted the great divide between Herr X and me: He gets to go out and talk to people — be it at an office party or just at the office — and I get to stay home and talk to myself. I am pretty boring, and Baby Y rarely has anything interesting to discuss.

And that’s not even really it — I can always join a playgroup, and I see my childfree friends when I want to improve my vocabulary beyond goo-goo and ga-ga. It’s the fact that I don’t have my own office party to go to, my own speeches and awards, my own accomplishments (aside from Diaper Change Velocity or Cry Interpretation and Translation). And that, once again and for evermore, I will always be the one who stays behind with the kid(s) while Herr X goes out into the world.

I can’t go to the ball until I finish my chores, and the to-do list is infinite.