The object of my desire
Somehow, when Frumpy Middleaged Mom embarked on motherhood, she didn’t realize that showers were going to be a casualty of the job.
Before I became a mom, I always wondered why a certain friend came to work with greasy hair. She was a single mom with a daughter, an unmedicated hyperactive son and a 90-minute commute.
Now, I know. All I have to do is think back to a few choice moments:
I had just gotten out of the shower when my brand-new neighbor, whom I hadn’t even met, knocked on my door. “Do you know what your children are doing?” she demanded. Well, no, actually, I didn’t. She was happy to explain that they had decided it would be amusing to break the glass in the salvaged window I had in the back yard and fling the glass over the fence onto her driveway, I guess for the enjoyable crunching sound. She didn’t appreciate their welcome to the neighborhood present.
I was driving with the house monkeys alone in the car back from my dad’s funeral in Colorado. This was, I might point out, insane. Never take a road trip by yourself with small children. But, hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Every night we would arrive exhausted at the motel on the road. Well, I was exhausted from driving. The kids were wired, from sitting in the car all day. Every time I would turn the water on for the shower, they would start jumping on the beds. I could hear them do it, but by the time I turned the water off and got out there, they stopped. And denied all knowledge of any bed mass destruction. Finally, I left the shower water on and crept back into the bedroom. They were jumping deliriously. I’m sure the people on the floor beneath us didn’t appreciate it one bit. On the other hand, at least I didn’t have to worry about a slasher like Anthony Perkins in Psycho. Anyone who saw my kids would run screaming in terror.
We were on vacation in southern Mexico, staying in an apartment in a gated compound where the kids could run around and play in the driveway. I debated the possibilities of trouble before I decided to leave the kids outside to play while I got into the shower. Wrong! My head was covered in shampoo when I heard the screaming, grabbed a robe and ran outside. Cheetah Boy had kicked a soccer ball through the ONLY window in the entire compound that wasn’t protected by iron bars. It led to the basement bedroom of my friend, Laura, who was now covered with shards of glass and screaming at the top of her lungs. Fortunately, she wasn’t injured, but we had to go to the landlady and beg forgiveness and then pay to have the glass replaced.
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