I was innocently searching the freezer for something palatable for children when out plopped my gigantic, Costco sized bag of mixed vegetables onto my head and all over the floor. It's nice being covered in mushrooms, baby carrots, snow peas and red peppers but it's even nicer when they are frozen. I groaned and mumbled a few things that I won't share. I grabbed the remaining veggies and lugged them outside to my not-quite-so-stuffed-with-oversized-veggies freezer. I had just barely secured the culprits in my freezer when out came Jackson to see what I was up to. He greeted me with these lovely words, "Don't worry, Mom. I locked the door so Max can't come out." Now this wouldn't concern me except I knew that all the other doors were locked and I did not have my keys. Jackson had unwittingly locked us out and locked my 16 month HOLY TERROR alone in the house. Panic, panic, panic! I ran as fast as my heeled shoes and dimply bottom could take me down to my neighbor's house. I'm not sure I was even coherent when I tried to explain what had happened. My nice neighbor, let me in and I called a lock smith while she ran up with her baby to see if she could jimmy the door open with a her Clark County library card. I quickly followed. I could hear Max crying. I grabbed the library card and bent the thing to all heck and back, but was able to pop the door open. I saw my little Max's face: red, blotchy and wet. He grabbed me and said, "mamamamama." I realized that I would rather wear boy-short bikini bottoms (a nightmare, believe me!) & an unpadded bikini top (the horror!) with a snake draped all over me (Hate snakes. HATE!) than not be able to get to Max when he needs me. Then I proceeded to embarrass myself by starting to blubber in front of my neighbor.
I like to sometimes pretend that I am someone who has her act together. You know, not a hair out of place, that sort of thing--right out of a Jane Austen novel. I'm thinking Emma Thompson in Sense and Sensibility but with more cleavage and a hat with a feather in it. Like a frying pan smacking me in the face, I am reminded that image is not real. Not even close. So maybe I should just give it up and admit that my bra is roomy, my laundry is piled to the ceiling (at least the stuff that made it to the laundry room), my windows are covered with finger prints, I spent too much money last month, I forgot to pay my electricity bill, my heels are scaly and my toes still have black nail polish on them from Halloween (gross, I know!), and my car needs to be washed and has needed to be washed for weeks. And now I can add to that list that I sob in front of the neighbors. Not dainty little tears-- big fat, blow your nose kind of slobbery blubbering tears of relief. Maybe my fantasy needs a little tweaking (I'm keeping the cleavage). Maybe I do. I don't really care as long as I am there when my children need me.
(I'm trying to end this blog in a Grey's Anatomy sort of fashion. You know, where they make more meaning out of whatever happened in the episode and sum it up in a tidy fashion at the end with a syrupy deep thought. But really, it's over-kill at the end of the episode that leaves you running for your remote so you don't have to listen to it? How'd I do?
Crap, I just confessed that I watch Grey's Anatomy, huh! (Only occasionally, in my closet, with a blanket over my head.) I'm really giving away too much here. Next, I'll be talking about The Bache....)
