I've been a bit disoriented lately...scattered, not yet in a routine, trying to adjust to the school schedule and lots of concentrated one-on-one time with my two-year old daughter, Claire.
And so true to form, I've had these, "Are you fucking kidding me?" moments that well, just need to be written down.
The first occurred in the toy room of a Hospice center. My 15-year old cousin is dying of Leukemia which is painful and really hard to witness. And so, on a recent visit, I decided to take the smaller kiddos into the fun toy room while I took a moment to breathe and pray. While sitting in the rocker in the corner, I observed the following conversation...oh, here's the back story...Kate, my six-year old daughter is playing the doctor and Lilly, my four-year old niece is playing the mommy leaning over a table with a doll baby.
"See, the problem is that you have a fake baby...yes, that's right...your baby is actually a robot. It's ribs are waaaaayyyy too big. I'm not sure that there's much we can do," says Kate.
"Oh God...Oh no...help my baby!!!, " replies Lilly.
To which, I nearly peed myself in laughter.
The next morning, I went on a 13-mile training run in preparation for my next half marathon race. Feeling good about the weather, my pace, and in general, my endurance, I came home with a smile on my face. After stripping down to dive into the tub, I realized that I had some nasty chaffing on my inner thigh...i.e. bikini line and thought I was going to die. You know what a rug burn feels like? Pretend it's nearly on top of your vagina...yeah, it sucked. Until my husband suggested that I use neosporin and a bandaid. That's right. I put a fucking bandaid on my 'how ya doin' and when it was time to strip it off, I screamed like a fucking banchee making the neighbors think that a woman was being murdered. Fuck me...don't ever do that.
The following afternoon, I took Claire (2.5) to the park to build sand castles. After successfully creating four decent sized castles complete with a moat and twig decorations, she alerted all of the moms in the vicinity that she had a good sized amount of sand in her vagina. Yes, it was as awkward as you're imagining.
After gracelessly exiting the park, we high tailed it to Target for a few items. Hanging out in the check out lane, I smelled a huge pile of shit and realized that it was eminating from my daughter. I quickly grabbed her and ran to the family changing room only to discover that I had no wet wipes or diapers in my purse. I had to use her dress to sop up an unGodly amount of poop and then carry her out of the store naked. It was a banner motherhood moment.
And then finally this morning after drinking wine last night with my girlfriends and running hard with a bit of a hang over, I settled into the toilet to do my business....upon which my six-year old daughter Kate barged in to brush her teeth and promptly said, "Oh God, mama...what's wrong with you...you need to get that checked out."
I write these things so that you can feel better about you're own life. I've decided to give up on any pretense of a Martha Stewart inspired life. At this point, I'm just trying to survive and doing so by living on love.