Motherhood and everything associated with it is a journey; one that is rewarding, amusing and one that I’d do again in a heartbeat. But sometimes, something happens that makes you wonder what the hell became of “The-Life-You-Used-To-Know”; the one pre-kids, when you imagined yourself eventually being a glamour mom living in a gorgeous and clean suburban home, well-behaved children, and a beautiful dog lounging casually on the front steps as it quietly watches birds “lunch” at a nearby birdfeeder.
The other day, I was walking through my bedroom and caught a glance of myself mid-stride in the mirror. It was 10AM and I was still wearing my “jammies” (a giant t-shirt and gym shorts), hair pulled into a very messy ponytail, and old glasses sitting askew on the tip of my nose. That alone wasn’t so different from my old life when I used to wake up late on Sunday, grab the Sunday paper from the end of my driveway, and read it while leisurely sipping coffee in my jammies – what made it different was that this time, I was carrying an armful of dirty laundry, my glasses were smeared with what looked like boogies, one arm of my glasses was completely out of alignment, and my shirt was splattered with grease from that morning’s breakfast. In the background, I could hear the dog barking at imaginary flying monkeys while my kids were fighting over something in the playroom.
I really should go take a shower.
I threw the dirty laundry into the washer and started the wash cycle. I paused for a moment, noticing that the house was oddly and suddenly very quiet. That lull was broken by the kids’ screaming.
“Mom? MOM?? MOMMY???”
“Just a second.”
“MOMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!! COME HERE!!!!”
“You have to COME HERE NOW!!!!”
I finished up organizing the rest of the dirty laundry, exchanging the empty space in my arms with a pile of clean clothes from the dryer. I walked out to the front of the house to see what was going on.
As my arms were full with the pile of clothes, I couldn’t actually see around it to find my slippers (which I take off when I enter the area where the laundry room is), so I just walked out barefoot. As I emerged to the foyer, I saw both of my kids hanging over the gate that closed the playroom off from the foyer. Little B had her hand over her mouth in an “Uh Oh!” gesture.
“What’s going on?”
“Mom, look!!!!” Little A pointed towards a spot in our foyer (which is laid with stupidly glossy tiles). I turned but couldn’t see anything over the giant pile in my arms.
“What is it? I can’t see.”
“Mom!! Mom!!! HUNTER PEED and…”
At that very moment, my heel stepped into warm liquid on the glossy floor. I felt myself lose grip as I put my weight on that foot, and suddenly my legs were rotating rapidly as seen in cartoons, in an effort to regain balance. In doing so, I pretty much tossed the pile of clean clothes out of my arms. It landed on the floor about 2 feet to the side of me while my butt landed firmly in the wet, warm puddle on the foyer floor.
“…pooped on the floor…”
F*cking dog…wait…did he say POOP??
“Poop? What poop?”
Little A pointed right at my laundry pile. “Right there…”
“Under the laundry.”
So, yeah, my life is glamorous; so much that you can call me “Glamour Mom.” I’m the lady with the butt planted firmly in the puddle of fresh dog pee, with all of my clean laundry covered in dog poop.
I really should go take a shower.