Friday, February 19, 2010

Frantic Friday

Good grief. It’s already one of THOSE days.

Last night I was so proud of myself – I had everything packed, diapers ready, bottles full, all clean and nice and shiny, for my husband to put in the car before he left to go to court this morning. Best of all, it was ready by 8:30pm, so I was not running around like a headless chicken at 11:30pm, frantically shoving bottles into bags and scrubbing poo out of diaper liners (perhaps the greatest argument for disposables). Cut to this morning: my awesome husband brought me a perfect, steaming, caffeine-packed soy latte from Starbucks before he left. I had taken perhaps three sips when I went to haul Carter, in his car seat, off the kitchen table and down to the car – I heard an ominous popping sound and BAM – soy latte, all over the floor. And this was no tall latte, my friend – this was a GRANDE. All over the wood floor, which I had just mopped three days ago, so it was actually clean for perhaps the first time since the birth of my child. Just then C started fussing, because of course he’d awoken at 5:30 this morning and was therefore exhausted by the time it was 8:15 and time to go to baby school. So there I am, on my hands and knees in my living room, scrubbing soy off the floor and attempting to refrain from cursing and instead to reassure my baby that everything was okay and he’d be slumbering sweetly in the car in no time.

Then I was driving to work with uncombed, slept-on hair, bangs still haphazardly shoved back with a bobby pin, when I attempted to apply mascara while stopped at a red light (yes, I know, irresponsible driving and subsequent bad parenting – guilty as charged). After moderately successful completion of an eye’s worth of lashes with only a slightly embarrassing number of black smudges on my eyelids, I glanced to my left and saw two men in a pick-up truck staring at me. The one in the passenger seat gave me a big smile and a thumbs-up, by which I can only assume he was being ironic and actually thinking “Look at that crazy broad. Damn those shitty female drivers!” And I just gave him a big smile right back, but I really should have rolled down the window and yelled “I AM A MOTHER, AND THIS SHIT IS HARD, BUDDY! I’d like to see you push a watermelon out of your hoo-hah, let it gnaw at your nipples every few hours for months, then drag your sleepless ass to work every day and NOT apply mascara at a stoplight once in awhile. So don’t you dare judge me, Mr. PaunchyBelly! You, with your stained Hanes t-shirt, cackling at crazed young mothers on their morning commutes. Shut it! I WANT MY LATTE!”

Then I got to the office and discovered that I’d forgotten my cell phone at home, so I have no idea how long I’m pumping when I’m in the mother’s room. Every time I go in today it will be like I’ve been sucked into a breastmilk-filled vortex where time doesn’t exist. I wonder how long I could hide in there before they came looking for me. Two hours? Three?

Yeah, it’s one of those days.

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