Yes, you read that correctly. And sometimes I really think it. For instance, yesterday, when I was over being The Default Parent (a must read for any parents, default or not), and for all overly-dramatic intents and purposes just wanted to sit on the couch and scratch my balls while watching football.
Now, before I go completely down my The Grass Is Greener rant, I would like to state the obvious and maybe not so obvious. A) I do not know what it’s like to be a member of the penis carrying 
society, so it’s really not fair to judge, but I’m going to anyway. B) I do not know what it is like to carry the financial weight of my family. I mean, I am trying to be a writer after all, so we can just permanently add that to the “things I will never know” list. C) Somewhere in the world, the grass has to actually be greener on the other side of the fence. Scotland? Ireland? Anyone? I’m positive it was one of Newton’s laws, it just never hit mainstream, clearly lost along with his fourth law of motion. D) My husband saved my life. Maybe not in the strapped me to a well pipe during a F5 tornado (Twister, anyone?) or saved me from my icy death jumping off the front of the Titanic variety, but he did save me from a string of bad relationships, and gave me a life beyond anything I could have ever asked for. But, yes there is always a but, with that being said, there are still days I wish I had been born with a penis.
Why?
It’s simple really. Okay, it’s not simple at all, but try and follow.
When this post started in my head yesterday, it wasn’t very nice. I was at my wits end. And maybe just a little dramatic. Maybe? It felt like one of those moments where the weight of the world was pressing down on me, and all I wanted to do was make a grocery list. That’s all, a simple grocery list. But there was a larger than life three-year-old determined to derail any plans I had, and she was winning. The two-and-a-half foot tall, thirty-two pounds was kicking my butt. It was one of those moments that had someone taken a picture, and posted it to Facebook, it wouldn’t have been pretty, but it was real. And, in that moment, from my seething red point of view, all I saw was the penis carrying human in our house doing whatever he wanted to do All. Weekend. Long.
Now, I could tell you that the built in closet monstrosity that my husband is building will be mutually beneficial since we live in a 1920’s house with zero storage. And that this was the first weekend in a very long time he hasn’t worked, but that would negate my point of view and be way less dramatic, so we’ll stick to focusing on me.
So here I am, Sunday afternoon, sitting in a house that you can’t tell I spent all day Saturday cleaning, trying to a make a simple list while my child screams from the ground beneath her swing outside that all she wants is for me push her. Meanwhile, the penis carrying human, is in his makeshift work room (I now have tarps closing in my carport and a tank top heater keeping it warm. Thank God it’s on the back side of the house), with Pandora blaring and enough stain fumes to get the entire county high. Did I mention he has been in there all weekend? That part I am not lying about. All. Weekend. And suddenly, I wish I had been born with a penis.
When have I ever had the opportunity to just do what I wanted all weekend? When was the last time the entire house was cleaned by someone other than me? When was the last time I had the day to do what I needed to do without hearing “mommy, mommy, mommy” 8 million times? When was the last time someone else made the menu for the week, made the grocery list, and went to the store with the never ending question asking kid in tow?
When? When? When?
I know it’s not that simple. I know the grass isn’t always greener on the other side. And I know that my penis carrying human does a lot for our family. But sometimes, a girl just needs to wish she had been born with penis. Because sometimes, you just have to believe they have it easier.
