And that makes me sad.
This is nothing new, mind you. Since the moment I went back to work (I had favorite locked down up until that point), I’ve been a second thought. A person to turn to when all other avenues have been exhausted.
Practically a stranger.
My husband will tell you this is not true. He will try to salvage whatever motherly dignity I have remaining and swear 29 ways to Sunday that our son loves me just as much as he loves his daddy.
But he and I and our son especially know better. I’m second best. And we all know second best is the first loser.
I just don’t get how the kid can’t understand what he’s dismissing, though. I mean, I’m the one who was miserable for 9 months. Not Daddy. ME. (Well, maybe Daddy, too, but certainly not as miserable as me. CERTAINLY NOT.)
I’m the one who tried to tell the medical professionals I was in labor for four weeks without so much as a feigned interest in my concerns. I’m the one who was admitted to the hospital on two false alarms. I’M THE ONE WHOSE VAGINA FELT LIKE IT WAS ABOUT TO FALL DOWN TO HER ANKLES FOR 3 MONTHS.
To top it off, I’m the one who was promised pain meds when she went into labor and was then told, Just kidding. You’ll have to suffer through these excruciating contractions and certainty that your uterus will become one with your anus until your husband arrives and we can get you into an operating room for that c-section you need, for Christ’s sake.
I SHOULD BE THE FAVORITE, DAMNIT!
I like to joke, but in reality, part of that favoritism stings. Must be how red-headed step-children feel. Real sucky.
I keep holding on to the hope that he’ll realize I’m worth just as much salt as his old man. At least in the meantime I can use it as an excuse to make my husband change the poopy diapers.
There is, after all, a silver lining to just about anything. Even Cinderalla and her sorry ass mice had their day at the ball, and that has to count for something, right? AMIRIGHT?!?