Dear Diary,
There is a fine line very obvious big, black, bold, thick line that separates women without children and women with children. I'd like to think I stay somewhere in the middle. I don't own a minivan, a diaper bag (*gasp* I never have), or a double stroller. I don't buy my kids shoes that light up or have cartoon characters on them. I don't own a million huge, plastic, toe-stubbing toys that fill my house until there is no room to walk. But today I realized that my ensemble screamed "I'm a mom!" from head to toe.
When I caught myself being extra Momly, I realized I was at the grocery store...just for fun. Merely to roam the aisles. Strike one.
Then I remembered my super short hair cut that I got a few days ago- a total look changer. Even the kids' pediatrician's assistant noticed. I went from hair down the middle of my back, to an incredibly short bob an inch above my jaw line. I now see why mothers do it. No throw up, food or any other foreign object lands in my hair anymore. No one pulls it or steps on it, either. Smart style, but incredibly motherly.
Strike three came when I realized the pants I was wearing had a busted zipper from after I had my last child, putting them on after thinking I was skinnier than I truly was. That didn't stop me from wearing them. My husband even asked if my zipper was down. Nope, no it isn't. Just busted.
To top it off, I looked down and saw my Crocs. Not the regular ole pair of Crocs, but the ones lined with fuzzy layer as to keep one's feet warm in the cold Arizona winters.
Needless to say, I was ashamed. But happy, too. And the kids and I did our usual singing and dancing in the car all the way home, while sharing a bag of Skittles and Goldfish. I'm a mom. So sue me.
Sincerely,
Me.
Dear Diary,
We have a dog. Specifically, a boxer. Cute thing, that pup. But not when I slave away in the kitchen for 2 hours, only to find that when my back is turned, my entire afternoon's worth of work has been destroyed. I mean eaten.
I found a delicious recipe on Pinterest. I'm a sucker for buffalo wings, so this dinner excited me. However, it was a lot of preparation. After I finally finished making our meal and setting the table, my toddler wanted to make cupcakes (a very regular request). We had one egg (ONE EGG!) but needed three. So off we went to the next door neighbor's house to see if they had any we could borrow. When I came back, I noticed pieces of lettuce from the salad sprinkled across the table. I squinted my eyes and looked the table up and down, side to side. Upon further examination I found a cup knocked over. Then I saw it. The plate of delicious, gorgeous, homemade buffalo meatballs. GONE. My huge bowl of chinese cabbage salad, halfway eaten and destroyed. I felt like Ralphie's dad on A Christmas Story after the Bumpus hounds ate his precious Christmas turkey.
I was so mad I laughed. That was a sign it was really bad. I laughed like a lunatic in my kitchen after spanking my dog and subjecting her to solitary confinement until further notice. (Muahaha) But she'll have her revenge, that dog. All I know is that Frank's Hot Sauce probably doesn't feel as good going out as it did going in.
Sincerely,
Me. The if-it's-not-destroyed-by-fire-it's-destroyed-by-my-dog type of chef.
Dear Diary,
I like things clean. But I am not a clean freak. I realize that I have a husband, two children and a boxer. So...4 children. My house will not be clean 100% of the time. Maybe more like 1%. But houses are to be lived in, not looked at.
With that being said, I finally decided to do a deep clean of my two bathrooms. I even went out into the garage to get my Comet, Windex, rubber gloves and toilet scrubber. This was obviously serious businsess. AND, I did it during nap time. (As a side note, do you understand what kinds of motherly bliss can be done during nap time? Let me see, a nap for mom, a hot fudge sundae, a show on Netflix, a hot bath, Tetris, a book reading session, a lengthy phone call to an old friend, mindless Facebookery, etc. And I cleaned the toilets.)
After washing/drying both the shower curtain, its liner, and the bath mats, cleaning both toilets, scrubbing the showers, and hand-cleaning the tile floors of each bathroom, I was ready to be done. By this time, both my children had woken up and my eldest had to relieve his bowels. Thankfully, the "drop off" was done just before dumping Clorox into the John. I flushed that thing and trucked on. When I was done, my son came waddling back to me, the look of horror and disgust on his face as he tells me, "Mom, I peeeewwwwwp. Pewp in paaaaants." What?! You are potty trained! And poop trained! Sure enough, even after the first round of bowel relief, he still had to go. If it were me, I'd have sat on that plastic froggy pot as long as possible with the first turd, avoiding everyone and everything. But you know 3 year olds, they have business to take care of. Thomas the train isn't going to play by itself. So poop it was.
This was the moment my inner Oscar the Grouch manifest itself as I realized that whole bit with the wash-your-car-and-it-will-rain was true. Only mine was sanitize-your-bathrooms-for-the-first-time-in-forever-and-be-proud-of-yourself-for-17-seconds-until-your-toddler-comes-waddling-back-to-you-with-poop-everywhere. How ironic.
Sincerely,
Me. Head of Waste Management.
Dear Diary,
Tonight, I witnessed legitimate fear in my son's eyes. His little sister is a curious cat, that one. And she's been known a time or two for trying to detach a certain piece of his body during bath time, somehow mistaking it for a toy.
This time, he was standing. I was scrubbing his little pot belly when out of nowhere comes five anxious fingers, ready to perform their famous death grip on his unmentionables. When I told him to watch out, he screamed, "Sissy! Don't eat it!" with more panic and irritation than I have ever heard from him before.
Even though she was educated on the matter (a.k.a. yelled at by her 3 year old brother), I get the feeling she'll be back.
Sincerely,
Me. Mom of a scared little boy and a human female version of Jaws.
Dear Diary,
I have been in a complex for quite some time. Not like a normal person's complex, though. This is real.
Let me preface this entry by saying that I am nearly 26 years old and have not complained about this issue until now. What is my issue, you ask? I don't have boobs. Like, at all. The four years I participated in Track & Field back in high school were perfect for not having boobs. (Who wants a cantaloupe of flesh smacking you in the chin at the 100 meter mark?) But I am beginning to think mine have gotten even smaller as the years have passed.
They have very slowly and strategically shifted their way down to where my lower abs used to be. I'm considering putting an Amber Alert out for my abs and having my boobs arrested for squatting.
At this rate, by the time I am 90, I should have two gaping holes where my tenders used to be. Here's to hoping a boob-enhancing pill comes out in the next 10 years so I don't get to that point.
Sincerely,
Me. Boobless McGee.
Dear Diary,
Earlier this week, I attempted to make Green Chile Chicken Enchiladas. Easy, right? Layers of tortilla, some cream of chicken soup mixed with milk, some diced up onions, a load of cheese and some green chile enchilada sauce. Right up my alley. More of an assembly of dinner than anything else.
But as I went to make my second layer, I realized I left out both the chicken and the enchilada sauce. So instead of making Green Chile Chicken Enchiladas, I was making Tortilla Cream of Chicken with a Dash of Onion Casserole. I grabbed my can opener for the canned chicken I planned to use. Right as I went to remove the top, the can attacked me. Sliced right through my pointer finger. Suddenly my kitchen floor was splattered with blood (gross) and I was going through napkins like they were going out of style just to keep the blood from flowing. I was so bugged. Here I am, making dinner at 4:50 PM, ten minutes before my husband gets off of work and now I have to hit the Urgent Care and possibly get a stitch. Instead, I kept trucking along, making my fine meal.
My husband got home, we ate our dinner, it was gross, and life went on. My finger is now purple, stitchless, and fat. I can't even fit it up my nostril. But I am now one step closer to becoming a better cook.
Sincerely,
Me. Betty Crocker.
