In my early 20s, before I ever became a confident mommy, I would go to a party or a bar with my flirting-able girlfriends and watch them get the guys, while I waited to be the DD. I could put on my best dress, spend an hour on my hair and even make an awkward attempt at winking, but I would always be the one standing by the door with the keys. Occasionally, some drunken guy, who decided to be my dance partner without asking, would approach me with his butt in the air and I would make a wild dash to the ladies lounge.
I love my daughter’s imagination. Driving my daughter to ballet yesterday, she yelled, “wow!” from the backseat. It was the kind of “wow!” you only hear when you surprise your kid with a trip to the Magic Kingdom or they walk into a candy, ice cream or toy store. I hit the brakes so hard at the light that I almost went from 35 to 0 in one second.
“What, honey? What did you see?!?” I screamed, as I whipped my head around and smashed my cheek into the headrest.
“I saw a rocket ship!” she replied.
I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t spot anything she could mistake for a rocket ship.
A couple of weeks ago, I took my daughter to get her flu shot at our local, private clinic. They have those come-one, come-all express days, where you stand in a line, fill out a yellow sheet claiming crazy things like you’ve never been severely ill after the flu shot, you’re not allergic to eggs and you’ve never had Guillain-Barre Syndrome. Of course, I mark “no” on all and never give the list a second thought. Guillain-Barre has got to be pretty rare, right?
My daughter had a cold, so the nurse recommended I wait until it subsided. Rather than go home shot-less after waiting in line, I decided to get my flu shot.
This glass of murky water with a dirty paper towel in it is what I woke to on my nightstand this morning. Before I closed my eyes and went to sleep, it was a tall glass of crystal clear water. The only explanation is that I sleepwalked.
When I was a kid, I used to sleepwalk all of the time. My mother told me I always ended up sitting on a chair in the living room downstairs, which is really creepy. If Babyface did that I would fear she was channeling Linda Blair. That she’d be the documentary version of the next Exorcist flick.
Last week, the local power company announced they needed to fix a lamp pole and we could be without electricity from 8 am-5 pm. Pre-child, I would have used this time to catch up on my reading or I would have been at work. Post-child, they hit my panic button. Not because of the short time the power would be out, but how I would entertain my child, if it carried into the dead of night or, even worse, for days on end. As you can see, the power company hasn’t been very reliable in the past.
This made my mind wander to what I would do to survive for even a few days, post-natural disaster or an apocalypse with a preschooler.
My daughter was nowhere in sight. I’m always the first to panic when our kids disappear at the park. I panic like a mommy with an only child.
I circled the playground; not caring if the sand filled my shoes or a swing smacked me from the side, until I spotted the back of Babyface. She was going in for the kill. She had cupped and dipped both hands into the child-made well of water that settled underneath the water fountain spout. Some kid had strategically covered the drain with sand, so it was overflowing.
My 8mm reel turned on, the sound disappeared and everything flipped to slow motion.
I’m surprised I haven’t gone deaf yet…from my own yelling. After having a kid, I have two tones: quiet to avoid a headache and really, really loud. When I say loud, I mean everyone can probably hear me down the block, while a chainsaw is running (okay, I’m not sure why there would be a chainsaw on our block, but you get the idea). When it comes to yelling, there’s the great, the good, the bad and the ugly.
The Great Yelling
There are the basics, like yelling when my football team is playing. Sometimes this scares my daughter and she covers her ears.
I am about to utter words that I never thought would leave my mouth or be tapped by my fingers. Words that when put together once invoked nausea. Words that my husband probably prayed for BEFORE his own health. The words: I LOVE FOOTBALL. That’s it, everyone, hell has officially frozen over. Global warming will soon come to a close.
If you had asked me a year and half ago what offsides meant, I might have told you a player fell off his rocker. If you had asked me what the numbers a quarterback chants before a play meant, I may have said the week’s winning lottery numbers or the numbers the Oceanic survivors had to punch in to keep the island from blowing up.
It’s that time of year again. The foliage turns several shades of orange. The weather cools enough to wear a jacket. Back-to-school sales fill my inbox. And, flu shot signs line strip malls.
For as long as I can really remember, maybe 10 years, I’ve been getting the flu shot. The year before that I had the flu and I had it bad. It started off as a headache and then I was incapacitated, needing to rely on a roommate I couldn’t stand for soup and Theraflu. The only symptoms: chills and a fever registering over 103 for four days.
Saturday started off so well. Birds were literally chirping when I woke and I didn’t want to sneak up on them with a BB gun. The clouds probably parted, while the sun came out, and stayed that way. The temperature outside was set at a perfect 85 degrees, not too cold and not too hot (I like it hot, hot, hot).
My daughter was listening to me from the minute she opened her eyes. Listening so well that we would go in for frequent morning hugs. We made cinnamon rolls and they came out perfectly, not too doughy and not too crisp.