Still Not GreatDownhill, indeed. Just like my youngest, who, by the time I’d stumbled back to my coffee, had managed to get on his Lightning McQueen Trike-to-Bike Convertible Toddler Tricycle with Button-Activated Sounds from Disney/Pixar’s “Cars.” I knew this, not because I saw him as he trundled down our inclined driveway, but because I heard Tow Mater’s voice sing out in Doppler Effect, “Git-R-Done!”
There are some mothers who wake before their children, shower and dress themselves, brush on some age-defying mineral make-up, and are seated at the kitchen table, halfway through a cup of coffee when their children begin to wake. I hate those women.
While I flew out the door to rescue my three-year-old from a traffic accident, the whole neighborhood discovered that I sleep in a tattered old tee shirt of my husband’s that leaves a whole lot less to the imagination than I might like.
“Morning, Ellen!” I called to my neighbor as my cotton panties slid ever deeper between my cheeks.
I grabbed the parent push bars on the trike just before Ellen got an eyeful of my banana-shaped birthmark. She’s lucky it was underwear day.
“Are you kidding me? Since when is it okay to sneak out for a morning bike ride without mommy? Do you realize I haven’t even finished my coffee yet? Do you realize you could have been killed in the road by some texting-and-driving maniac? Do you realize these questions are rhetorical?”
It was nice to have another adult enter the conversation, even if it was a cartoon tow truck with poor dental coverage. At least Mater had a can-do attitude. It looked like I’d need it today.
Once I had corralled the escapee back into the house, and adjusted my massive wedgie, I was suddenly struck by how quiet it was. A churning started deep in my gut, as this kind of extreme silence usually meant that something somewhere was on fire. Even though I had no evidence to support my hypothesis, I made a beeline for my oldest child's room. As I made my way down the hall, my mommy-powers were validated. The girl's door was closed, but I could still smell the overwhelming scent of permanent markers.
The desperate and slightly insane part of me began chanting to herself, "Please be sniffing sharpies. Please be sniffing sharpies."
But, alas, as I flung open the bedroom door, I was faced with irrefutable evidence that my young children had not taken up huffing as a hobby. My middle child was covered with black permanent marker. The girl paused mid-stroke, and squeaked out, "Oh, hi, Mommy! Look, brother's a tiger!"
A second glance at the child revealed that he did appear to be covered in stripes that were vaguely tiger-like. Unfortunately, a third glance (more like a double take, really) showed something even more interesting. Emblazoned on my son's forearm was a word. And not a very nice one. Some, like Ralphie from "A Christmas Story," would even call it the Queen Mother of Dirty Words. And, I'm not talking about fudge, either.
I knew that the boy didn't write it on himself. He couldn't even spell his own name, much less master the elusive "ck" letter combination. As I opened my mouth to begin screaming obscenities (I wonder where she gets it?) the doorbell rang. A quick peek out the window revealed my mother-in-law. Awesome. Maybe she could entertain the children with stories of how the Democrats want to take all our Bibles and guns, while I did the laundry. And she could also get a good look at her grandson's sweet, sweet new ink.
Alrighty then. I will now pass the reigns over to Robyn. I'm sure this mom's day is going to get worse before it gets better. And, thanks again for including me in the awesome, Marian!