My peripheral vision caught movement as my daughter gasped.
“MOM, one of them is coming!”
I looked up at her and spoke in a hushed tone. “Car salesmen are approaching us like walkers from the Walking Dead.”
I know it is a business but I really would love to just buy a car without having to haggle for the right price.
I gaped in awe at the fattest turd I have ever seen. Who even did that?? Their poor butt hole, I can’t even fathom how that thing exited the sphincter.
The blob sat at the edge of the hole in the bottom, threatening to plug it up. My eyes were bulging in amazement. I double-gloved my right hand and prepared to snatch that atrocity out of the toilet bowl with a strong plastic bag.
My hand posied above the bowl, I flushed the toilet to make the water level drop and let me have a go at grabbing the poop. Quick as a flash, it swooshed into the hole and visibly clogged it.
I readied the plunger. Floop, floop, floop. Nothing. Flush. Floop, floop, floop.
Still nothing. Floop.
Eons later, I admitted defeat. My pinky was burning. I took off the gloves and discovered a blister. A stinkin’ toilet plunger pinky blister.
Oyiee. That sucker hurts.
My kids immediately began complaining about hunger pains the second I emerged from the bathroom. Fine. I sanitized and fought to open a can of refried beans. My hand slipped and sliced pieces of skin from my knuckles.
Bloody beans, anyone?
It is midnight. I am pacing around the house, trying to stay awake while I wait for these eggs to boil.
My kid needs to bring in 2 boiled eggs to dye at school tomorrow. But I forgot to do it earlier, of course! I forced myself to roll out of bed as soon as I realized I was about to epically fail again.
So, here I am. Pacing around. Pausing to stare at these eggs in a pot. Basically feeling like a zombie trying to impersonate a human.
Igghhhhhhj aaaaggahahaha I am exhausted!
My kids like home lunch. I’m not very good at including a desirable variety of items. It’s not usually a surprise to them about what I might include.
I was caught off guard when my brother noisily searched the remains of my kindergartener’s lunch bag and asked me what the red thing was. He likes to tease me about the “junk lunch” I provide, so I wasn’t paying very much attention… until my daughter asked, “Mom, what’s this red thing?”
My head jerked up and I looked for the alleged red thing. I have no idea what it could be. My brother held up a ziplock bag full of what appeared to be red salsa. But I never ever give my kids salsa. What the heck was that?
I reached for the bag and sniffed at the contents from the outside of the ziplock bag. I nearly retched all over the floor from the horrid odor.
The mystery bag was quickly thrown into the trash as I puzzled over the contents.
Ah hah. I switch out the lunch bags periodically to match the backpack. Sometimes I just can’t find the lunch bag so I use a new one. I apparently neglected to empty the bottom compartment of this particular lunch bag for weeks. The original items in the ziplock bag were tiny wheels of cheese covered in red wax. They must have melted over time.
I felt so badly for my child having brought out the Red Food bag at lunch time, wondering if she had tried to eat that gross thing in front of her friends. Sometimes, I am absolutely mortified at my horrible mothering skills.
I simply cannot remember. Did I poop yesterday? Or am I constipated? Umm. I was really busy. Every time I had to go, I remember getting interrupted. I think. Or not. Wouldn’t I be extra gassy?
The short path from the kitchen to the bathroom was an endless loop of obstacles. “MOM! She was looking at me!” Or “My neck is dry. I need water. I need water. Mommy. I need water, Mommy!” What was that blob on the wall? A booger? No one confesses.
Midnight arrived. Kids were in bed. Home lunches prepared, kitchen and living room cleaned, paperwork completed and I took advantage of showering with hot water. (Who likes to shower after water hogs?) Brushed my teeth, quickly decided against worrying about tomorrow’s outfit, and sank into bed.
Shit. I forgot to poop.
I pushed open the door to my daughter’s room. As I strode toward her, she looked up at me sheepishly. I put my arm on her shoulder.
“Mom, I just farted.”
“Oh…I see,” I breathed out carefully, “then I shall only exhale.. ” How lucky I was, that I had not yet refilled my lungs.
My feet shuffled quickly backwards, still slowly exhaling until I spun to dart through the exit.
I made it!
“Mom.” Her voice brushed softly against my ear. I turned my head to look at my 5 year old. She continued. “Who is gonna be our mom when you die?”
I blinked. “What?”
“I don’t want you to die. But who is gonna be our mom?” Tears rimmed her big eyes.
“Oh, honey, I am not dying. But I will always be in your heart, no matter what happens. I can be an angel and watch out for you forever.”
“But how do angels die?”
Even though I am an avid Supernatural fan, I tried to reassure her. “Angels don’t die. So I will watch you all the time.”
“But who will take care of us if you are an angel?”
Oh, come ON! Do all five year olds question death and caretakers every few days? I hugged her tight. “Your aunty will take care of you.”
She paused to think, staring at the wall behind me. “Okay. Can I watch movies now?”
I sighed and stroked her hair. “No. Please go to sleep. Shhhhh.”
Poking my head around the corner, I sniffed the air a few times. “Oh.” The tendrils of a slightly putrid odor flew up my nostrils.
My feet took me closer to the door and I called out to my 5 year old sitting on the toilet. “Good job!”
I may not be the most conventional mom.
I recently had a boyfriend. It sounds weird to me. Boyieeeeee freeeeend.
I am a grown-ass woman saying I had a boyfriend. I felt like I was either 15 years old or married most of the time.
He wants to know what he did to push me away. He misses me.
What can I really say? You’re a swell guy, but I need to be independent. I cannot really explain it. I am a free bird.