As evidence that I need another brain in addition to that second set of hands, I packed a Tupperware filled with three raw (yes, as in uncooked) eggs in M's lunch last week.I can only imagine her teacher's confusion over the exotic preparation of the eggs ("Um, this is how we eat eggs in Thailand?").
My babysitter texted me early afternoon: "Did you know you packed M raw eggs for lunch?" What the fuck? What is the babysitter talking about and, more importantly, what in the hell is she smoking? Raw eggs? No way, no how would I give my child uncooked, disease-carrying food for lunch. Some other phantom, irresponsible, inept mother must have snuck into our kitchen after I finished preparing her lunch this morning and switched out the apples (peeled and sliced just the way she likes them, thank you very much)and replaced them with some raw-ass eggs.
Same plastic container. Peeled apples are white-ish. Eggs are for-sure, white. I switched our three remaining eggs out of the carton into a plastic container because the carton had torn.
Shit, shit, shit.
Poor M. She is now forever known as the weird kid who brings raw eggs to school for lunch (she didn't really eat them). Her teacher at least had the sense (someone's got to) to crack the eggs (all three of them) before letting M touch them. And, she had her turkey sandwich, which thankfully wasn't switched up for some raw ground beef or something.
My roommate in grad school used to call these moments, when it seems your brain has completely vacated the cavity right above your eyebrows, "head up ass" moments. I actually think my head was so far up my ass that it might have qualified as a head-in-stomach moment.
And, so I offer this as a mea culpa to my 4-year-old:
Dear M, The fact that I packed you raw eggs for lunch doesn't mean I don't love you. It just means I'm a moron. You will have your moron moments too as a fully grown human being, and I promise that if you let me of the hook for this bad boy, I'll let you off the hook for yours.
Now that it's launched, and I actually have a couple of clients knocking...I don't think life is going to get less busy. And, what falls by the wayside? My mommy blog. I used to write multiple times in one week and now I'm lucky if I get one blog entry in. I feel schizophrenic these days. Do I want to be a writer/journalist? Do I want to be a stylist/fashionista? I even contemplated hanging up my mommy blogging skates. Then I thought better of it. I do want M to read this blog one day. Honestly. Maybe not when she's 14, but when she's an adult. I want her to know all the crazy-ass shit running around in her mom's head as she was chasing two little kids around. I want her to know all the beauty, sacrifice, joy and frustration that comes with parenting.
So, I'll keep going.
And, for now, I hope you'll settle for some pictures of my weekend in New York with just the girls...little girls. One of the joys of having M grow older is that you get to do really cool shit like this. It's not just about the swinging at the park, building blocks, or tossing her around in the air. We discover things together now and it is amazing. To see her walking around the city, not a baby or toddler, but an actual little girl...one that has real, true thoughts, feelings, questions, and opinions. I can hardly believe it.
Then she asks me to pee and I remember, we have a ways to go. And I smile.
M doing my hair on the train. I lost a significant amount of hair during the creation of the scalp-torture device also known as a ponytail, but also got natural botox on my forehead from all the pulling. At one point, I was convinced my scalp was bleeding.
We took a cab to see an off-broadway musical performance of Pinkalicious. Kitty came too.
Soooooo excited for Pinkalicious, I may have tinkled myself.
"I've died and gone to heaven."
Of course we had to pretend to be Tom Hanks.
...and even Mommy got in on the action...
And, finally, hailing a cab to head back to the hotel for pizza and sleep. We heart NY.
I've been angry. Not outwardly angry, but angry nonetheless. Getting stabbed in the back by an ex-business partner sucks balls.
And that's where I've been. Pissed. Furious. Dreaming up not-very-nice, not-very-constructive and not-very-grown-up ways to deal with the situation (usually involving toilet paper, eggs or both).
No matter how mad you get with circumstances in your life, though, there They are. I find myself always thinking of the better way to do the better thing. The better way to deal with stress. The better way to handle the unexpected and unfortunate. The better way to...live. I don't know if I actually better myself by this constant barrage of betterment. Most of the time, it ends up producing more stress.
And then there are moments like this morning. No rushing to get to school this a.m. Was up early, got dressed at a leisurely pace. Had breakfast. Drank my coffee. Even had time for a book with M. It's a beautiful fall day so decide, since we have time, to walk to school.
"Let's sing a song Mama!"
"What should we sing?"
"Five little ducks."
I start the chorus...
"Five little ducks went out to play..."
"Over the hills and far away.."
I pushed J as M skipped alongside -- happy to be walking to school and singing with her mommy.
I didn't want the song to end. So, we kept going. We sang it again and followed up with Where is Thumbkin?, ABCs, and This Old Man. The two of us belted out the songs with a passion and verve not commonly seen in either of us before 10 a.m. (It should be noted that M taught me the words to all these songs. My personal catalog of children's songs is woefully lacking. Case in point: I've been known to sing her Lady GaGa before bed.)
With every word, every note, I felt the frustration I'd been holding onto over the last few weeks, dissipating...at least a little. Losing money sucks. Feeling like a chump sucks even more. But, when you get down to it, this is life. Singing Five Little Ducks on the way to preschool. Simple and easy as pie.
And as I skipped along with M, pushing the stroller with not a care in the world, I was thankful. Thankful for what I have instead of dwelling on what I've lost. Who knew my four-year-old was the one who actually knew the real better way?