Please tell me I’m not the only one who tirelessly fantasizes about him.
You know, him: Bigger than life. Generous. Giving and gracious and kind.
Maybe even blue with the voice of Robin Williams (may he rest in peace).
Yup, I fantasize about finding a genie.
Because dammit, I want all that comes with it. I want the obedient magic carpet, the adorable little lamp and most of all, the three wishes.
And as I think through the possibilities inherent to these magical three wishes, my mind always goes to predictable, practical, oft poignant places.
- Wish #1 “I wish for unlimited wishes.”
- Wish #2: “I wish that my children, family and loved ones would live long, healthy, happy lives full of love and happiness.”
- Wish #3 “I wish George Clooney would leave that Amal chick and fall madly in love with me.”
Told ya: poignant.
But every once in a while, I play a game with myself.
“Self,” I think, because that’s the creative name I call myself in my head, “What if those wishes — the predictable, practical ones — weren’t an option? What if the wishes had to be about you, for you and serving you?”
Look at me practicing selfish self-talk. How meta.
Anyhow, there I am in my daydream, confronted with the aforementioned Robin Williams-voiced genie, and I consider.
What would I wish for?
Wish #1: Sleep
But not just any sleep. Because I’ve seen the loopholes inherent to these wishes, the “be careful what you wish for” twists and turns, so I know I’d get the kind of sleep that comes with a steep price.
I’d get the kind of sleep that happened just this morning, when my cherubic toddler woke me out of the deepest slumber (interrupting a George Clooney dream, no less) at 4:45 a.m. Her sweet and adorable “May I snuggle with you, Mommy?” was met with my open arms — until she proceeded to blow raspberries, thump my face, plug my nose and attempt to put random things in my only exposed ear until 7 a.m.
At which point: She fucking fell asleep.
And guess what time the alarm was set for? 7:05.
So the kind of sleep I’m wishing for is sleep for my toddler. I’m wishing she could sleep soundly, beautifully, peacefully.
Until I decide to wake her up — most likely by blowing some raspberries, thumping her face, plugging her nose and stuffing random things in her only exposed ear until she woke up.
Wish #2: That I could lose my insecurities
I recently went to a movie with my mom.
(Just realized: George Clooney was in this movie. Are you sensing a theme?)
Anyhow, when I walked up to the ticket window and requested one ticket for the 2:40 showing of Money Monster, I was met with this awesome follow-up:
“Do you qualify for the senior discount?”
I was stunned. Was she talking to me?
I looked around.
Given that I was the only one standing there, I deduced that she was, indeed, talking to me.
I quickly glanced at the sign to the right, revealing ticket prices, where I spied this horrifying statement:
“Must be 62 years or older to qualify for senior prices.”
Sixty-fucking-two years old.
How old am I, you may be wondering at this point?
Forty-two. Forty-fucking-two years old.
As in, TWO COLOSSAL DECADES AWAY FROM QUALIFYING FOR A SENIOR DISCOUNT.
As I lamented about the mishap on Facebook later that day, I was confronted with friends who dismissed it entirely, telling me she was obviously blind; that all millennials think anyone over the age of 40 is a senior citizen; that I should have just taken the discount and chalked it up to a profitable mistake.
But how did I take it? I would be lying if I didn’t admit that the exchange rocked me to my core. How is it possible that anyone could mistake quirky, adorable, obviously YOUNG (if only at heart) me as a senior citizen, after all?
Then I burned my clothes, cut my hair and booked a consult for a facelift.
Just kidding about all that. But I really was stunned, and it absolutely made every fault I know I have — the lines, the pores, the veins, the extra weight, the fears about how others perceive/judge me — seem massive in size and scope.
This speaks to the very core of my essence. I wish I could laugh it off. I wish I could deflect easily, not going to the dark places in my head where the insecurities fester.
But alas, that’s not me.
(Genie, are you listening?)
Wish #3: Love (from someone who doesn’t have to love me back)
Let’s face it: Your family has to love you. There is an impenetrable bond that exists between parents and kids, brothers and sisters and anyone else with whom you share genetic material.
But when you’re a single parent raising children, experiencing the highest of highs and the lowest of lows with these spectacular beings, there’s something missing at the end of every day.
I wish I had someone to talk to — about the highest highs and the lowest lows, about the experiences I’ve had at work, about the annoying guy who flipped me off in the crosswalk and the odd cup of mandarin oranges that has been sitting at my community mailbox for the last four days.
And trust me when I say Facebook doesn’t count.
Because surprisingly, Facebook doesn’t care about the random cup of rotting mandarin oranges.
(Quick aside: Does Amal seem too sophisticated for George, or is it just me?)
Wish #4: Reassurance from my future kids that I did ok
Yeah, I’m not sure if this one will pass muster with the genie requiring the selfish wishes. But if he’s being generous, maybe he’ll let this one slip by.
All I wish I could know is that the sum total of my decisions as a parent are not going to fundamentally fuck up my kids in their futures.
I certainly don’t second-guess every decision and instinct. Not at all. But at the end of the day, I only hope that my kids reflect on life with me as a parent — and don’t have TOO much fodder for therapy.
Wish #5: Unlimited chocolate, unlimited wine, unlimited ability to consume both free of consequence.
Wish #6: Escape
Not constant — just occasional.
I wish I had somewhere to go when I’m feeling overwhelmed — somewhere to physically go, to sit on a beach, to listen to the ocean, to watch a sunrise or sunset, to be quiet and centered and calm.
Somewhere free of deadlines and expectations — and occasionally, without children (though I’m sure they’d escape with me at times, too).
And somewhere that — you guessed it — George Clooney might like.
So there you have it: My top 6 secret selfish mommy wishes.
What are yours? Perhaps a maid? A personal trainer? A chef (or maybe all three rolled into one?)
Please feel free to share in my selfish-for-a-second mommy daydream.
Sharing is caring, after all. And what happens on Reno Mom’s Blog, stays on Reno Mom’s Blog.
Or so I’ve been told.