Someone's Officially a Little Woman Now, Ugh

You know, the life of a n'er do well, jet-setting Brazilian waxer is enviable and rarely dull. For instance, this week at the Maison 'd Formerlyfun:

Lucy Bagels became a woman and started her first menstrual cycle because she got into the cat food the morning she was to get spayed and I have been remiss in rescheduling her appointment. Now I have to explain to the kids why the dog's "butt" is bleeding, but really, she's fine. No, we are not going to celebrate the moment by buying her a box of pads and her own copy of Are You There God, It's Me Margaret.

In an attempt to get my son to stop biting his nails, and cuticles and probably his toenails when I am not watching, I got the No-Bite nail polish. I was worried it was a bit of a barbaric approach until everyone in the house asked to try it. It's like when someone tastes the sour milk and says to you, I think this is sour, taste it.

On a high note, I recently got to meet one of my favorite fellow bloggers, the Baroness Von Bloggenschtern. Not only did I get to meet her but her husband and two sweet(I know boys hate that word but they were, they really were) teenage sons. The Baroness was just as I would have imagined her, charming, unpretentiously eloquent, warm and funny. They were kind enough to pop over to my neck of the beach for a meet and great. There was girl talk, mom talk and to my delight, they are all huggers.

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Mama Sings the Blues

I had applied flea prevention to our three animals. I had trimmed printed pictures, written notes, stamped and addressed envelopes to send pictures of the kids to the great grandmas, both of whom are computer literate but not print literate. I had called to refill prescriptions. I had filled out the bebe's preschool paperwork, dug up her vaccination card. I had counted the cash from about twelve chacha waxes and put it in an envelope for my five year old's preschool for the month. I had deposited checks from the spa and my husband's paycheck. I had finally sent a wedding gift for a wedding I attended in June. I had put new sheets on the bed, gave my nine year old his to do list and fed the bebe her lunch.

All I wanted to do was sit for twenty minutes and eat my Greek salad in relative calm and quiet.

Though her belly should have been full, the vinegar soaked tomatoes with flecks of mint on them were too much for the bebe to ignore.

"More pillows mama, more pillows."

This is how she asked for the tomatoes out of my salad. I put a small tomato on my fork and give it to her, straight in the mouth careful not to drip on the fresh sheets since I am sitting on my bed eating my lunch looking over spa paperwork. Maybe this is why I have a hard time sleeping in my bed.

While I turn a piece of paper over to read the back side, the bebe has taken the tomato out of her mouth and examined it before wiping her hands on my just-cleaned sheets. I look right through the large watery red smear on the sheets that were pristine just seconds ago. It's my fault, I shouldn't have been in here eating.

I just wanted to eat my lunch.

I hurriedly finish what I can, the quiet lunch a pipe dream. I put the bowl on my dresser, too high for the bebe to reach and try to finish my paperwork so I can cross one more thing off the Sisyphean list that replicates itself each day.


The bowl is on the floor, not broken but the remaining vinaigrette has splashed the carpet. The cat had quietly snuck up on the dresser to lick out the small bits of leftover feta cheese spotting the bowl.

I just wanted to eat my lunch.

I don't even have the urge to cry about this small stuff anymore. Instead I put the bowl in the sink, get the resolve and wipe down the carpet. I take a deep breath and remind myself that parenthood is a package deal. You cannot have everything you want and have them too. I remind myself that when they are gone, on their own living their lives, I will eat my lunch in peace probably wishing for the noise and the small dirty hands and the clamors to share my food, my space, my body.

But today I just wanted to eat my lunch.

Lest you think I lament too much, here's the trade off for my hurried lunch and messy bed.
Bebe Sings the Blues

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