Pretty elementary if you stop to think about it.
The elegant lady in the uniform – the one with the shiny hair and great skin – tells us in a kindly voice that we must first put our own oxygen mask in place before placing the mask for the child.
I’m slumped in my seat on the plane, returning from another strange city, desperately hoping that the friendly-looking man in the next seat is not going to attempt conversation.
I’m beat and I really need him to remain a mystery. I need to plug in my ipod and tune into a dream.
No-one told me about a damn oxygen mask, I think resentfully. Why do I never breathe enough?
Probably because everyone knows that breathing REAL oxygen would leave less time for inhaling our own guilt.
Guilty of feeling chained and drained by the expectations of routine and domesticity. If I ever knocked domestic help before, here I am – watch me now – eating crumbs of your humble pie – soon to be cleaned up by YOUR DOMESTIC HELP GODDAMIT.
Guilty in my knowledge that I want more of this – the travel, the exciting work, the coming home to my kids’ hugs with presents and less of the hard, hard work of being their parent.
Round peg in a square hole I am on this day.