This morning I was startled awake from a dream about the Manson family by a little finger poking me in the eyelid and a sleepy voice asking, "Mama? What is water made of?"
I sat upright, wiped a thread of drool from my the corner of my mouth, and squinted at the rumply-haired little imp laying next to me.
"Who the fuck are you?" I asked.
No, just kidding.
Seriously, folks. Here we have illustrated just another reason why it is not advisable to drink wine on a Thursday night. It's never, ever worth the upset of the following morning. By that I mean: allowing your almost-5 year old to dress herself and leave the house looking like one of those children on the UNICEF box, forgetting her backpack and having to ask your friend's husband to throw two bucks down from the window of their third-floor apartment so that she can buy lunch, and spending most of the subway commute trying to shake off the sheen of Shitty Mothering that glistens all over you like dayglo body paint.
It's okay though, because when I got off the subway this morning, a happy girly song came on my ipod and I strutted across 5th Avenue and smiled up at the Flatiron building pretending to be Marlo Thomas or Mary Tyler Moore or Meredith Grey and suddenly I felt happy and flitty and pretty and it was all sort of okay. It's almost the weekend and I can spend time drawing with the kid and playing Polly Pockets and snuggling on the couch and take her to a birthday party at a farm and put on my gold cowboy boots and help her feed a goat and everything will be okey-dokey. I can feel it in my old, brittle bones.
Happy Friday, bitches.
The Blizzard of '17
3 days ago