Epiphanies: Hate 'Em.
For me the epiphany was marked by an onslaught of unexpected tears after a string of events, any one of which would have been manageable on its own.
Yesterday at work, one of the more lovely women there, a grandmotherly type, made the comment, "you're back here again? That baby of yours isn't going to recognize you!"
I stopped, stunned. I stammered a moment, and babbled something about having a webcam.
Then I called Nate who was at the playground with the baby. He tried to put the phone to her ear but instead of the usual she's smiling at the phone, or she's cooing at the phone, or she's eating the phone, he told me she seemed more interested in watching the other children on the swings. (And who could blame her.)
And then Nate called me at 10 pm New York time, screaming about how a friend's late night phone call woke the baby and how this is NOT ACCEPTABLE and how I need to call her RIGHT THIS INSTANT and yell at her about it. A few moments later he called back and apologized, informing me it had been a difficult day with Thalia since she had spiked a low fever--her first--after her shots that morning.
Her first fever.
Then this morning, as soon as I woke up, I raced to set up the webcam but I couldn't find the usb connector for it. Then I found the connector but my ichat wasn't working. Then Nate's ichat wasn't working. Then it was time for the baby's nap so we tabled the whole thing until later today.
But that's not why my world came crashing down.
I suggested that Nate call the doctor about Thalia's fever, which was apparently the worst thing I could have possibly said in the whole world. Far worse than your mother wears combat boots while sucking on donkey balls and voting republican.
Because my suggestion was met with the response, don't tell me how to do my job.
Which sounds to me a whole lot like, that's not your job.
Which sounds a whole lot like, your job is there, in LA. Your job is writing commercials and flying around the country and going to meetings and ordering room service and being glued to your laptop and did you hear the phrase "take care of your baby" in that list? Yeah, that's what I thought.
And then I cried.
Because I really don't care about my hotel. I don't care that the soap is smelly or the sheets are ugly or that valet is incompetent. I'm not some sort of high-maintenance corporate bitch diva, although I think I've been doing a reasonably good impression of one this week.
But it's easy to be angry with a hotel. It's hard to be angry with yourself.