Thursday, August 12, 2010

X-Mom Adventures: X-Mom vs The Kid

Somewhere in the city...

I’m in the fabric store perusing and my little clone asked could she go over to the next aisle to look at the ribbon. Sure, why not? “Don’t touch anything,” I informed her.

I’m totally engrossed when I hear a pitter-patter sound. A fast pitter-patter like someone was running in the aisle. My eyes never left the shelves and a few seconds later I heard it again. Someone’s kid was running up and down the aisle. I waited for the mom’s voice to tell the kid to stop. Nothing. I mean really. Don’t these moms know they shouldn’t let their kids run in the store? I came to the end of the aisle and nothing had tickled my fancy, so I decided to try the next aisle. I heard the kid running. Again.

What is it with these parents and their kids in the stores? It’s like the moment the kid passes through the sliding doors an invisible beam zaps him and boom, instant loco. I don’t see you running up and down the aisles, so why would you let your kid? Oh, right. He’s training to be a track star.

I turned the corner and heard the sound again. Sheesh. I rolled my eyes so hard it took a few minutes for them to come back down. And they rolled back just in time to see the kid come rushing around the corner. A kid of many talents, that one. Not only was he a track star but he was an illusionist, too! He made it appear as if the kid skidding to a stop in front of me was my kid! Damn, that kid was good.

Wow. I stood in awe for a few more seconds as reality eased in. Hold up. I stood frozen with shock trying desperately to understand. The loco kid running up and down the aisle was my loco kid, which by default made me the loco mom. I hate being the loco mom.  Somehow “Don’t touch anything” translated to “Tear up and down the aisle like I just snatched you from the jungle.” Yeah, I can see how that could be confusing.

We locked eyes waiting for the other to make the first move. My eyes spotted something oozing on her leg. Blood. Somehow as she was putting the brakes on her Speedy Gonzales feet she grazed the shelf, cutting her leg. The room started spinning. Was I about to faint because of the blood? Possibly, I’m a tad squeamish, but that wasn’t it.

See, Reality had stopped at 7-11 for a Slurpee and was carjacked by Madness. So, the spinning was actually caused by my body whirling around like a blender making margaritas. I levitated towards the ceiling as blue flames shot out of my eyes. Madness had transformed me into X-Mom. She appears when there is a threat to the offspring. Or, when said offspring poses its own threat to mom’s sanity and total annihilation is essential. It’s all about balance.

I marched my flames and her blood out of the store. I fired off a round of “What is wrong with you?” followed by a few “You know better!” grenades while speeding home. As I approached our street I asked if there were any Band-Aids home. Of course not, because someone—not snitching or anything, but she was the one bleeding—decided the Band-Aids made perfect stickers.

I executed a perfect U-ey in the middle of the street—not only is X-Mom lethal but she possesses expert stunt driver skills—and raced to the nearest store. I grabbed peroxide and Band-Aids, multicolored ones. I could tell my Mom meter was returning to normal levels because X-Mom could care less about colorful Band-Aids, but Mommy understands a kid likes choices.

I downshifted into nurse mode—opting to go with Neosporin instead of peroxide to knock out the sting factor—and asked what color Band-Aid she wanted.

“Why were you running in the store?” I asked as I tore the paper off.

“I was trying to surprise you,” she said. Okay, what? I gave her a hug, mostly to buy some time to figure out that little puzzle. Nothing came to me so I told her not to do it again. She hopped off of the sink and disappeared into her room. I looked to the shower curtain to see if it could offer up an explanation to her answer because obviously I didn’t speak kid. It had nothing.

Great. Where is the frigging parent handbook?

Stay tuned for more adventures of X-Mom and The Kid...

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Damsel Jungle

When I have a brand new hairdo
With my eyelashes all in curl,
I float as the clouds on air do,
I enjoy being a girl!
(Rodgers and Hammerstein musical Flower Drum Song, "I Enjoy Being a Girl")
 
Outside of the obvious Little Red Corvette zooming in every month--that's agony all on its own--have you ever realized being a girl is tough?  Just the junk we deal with to make it through the day is mind boggling.

For example, I wear heels.  A lot.  So, walking in them is a piece of cake for me.  I feel tall and confident.  And they put an extra oomph in my sway.  But, the whole time I'm thinking, don't fall, please don't fall!  It's a science we subject ourselves to just for that little extra dollop of sexiness.  Not only do we have to avoid all the cracks in the sidewalk, but there are sidewalk grates, the space between the elevator door and the floor, man holes, and virtually anything a heel can slip through.  Either of these could leave you belly flopping on the pavement or cursing at a broken heel.

Walking down stairs becomes just as precise as a tightrope act.  And going up can be just as bad because sometimes the heel doesn't want to join the rest of your foot on the step.  Somehow you find yourself sprawled at the bottom of the stairs with your underwear in the spotlight because your skirt is somewhere around your ears.

Now, it's possible to have a day without any stair or sidewalk incidents.  So, you're happily strolling down the street making crunch-time decisions.  Hmm...sushi or deli wrap for lunch?  And a bus roars down the street with a blast of air riding its bumper.  The air whooshes around you like a naughty boy on his bike with one thing on its mind.  Lifting up your skirt.  And while you're fighting to tame your skirt, which by now is hovering above your head like a cotton-blend halo, everyone within eyesight is gawking at your polka-dotted Betty Boop undies.

Then, there is the whole wrestling with the toilet liner thing.  You pull it out of its little black box, ripping it of course, while tap dancing in the stall.  You spread it out on the seat and wait a few seconds to make sure it's not going to slip in.  You race to unsnap, unhook, pull up, and yank down because not only is your bladder dangerously approaching bursting level, but the liner decides it wants to take a swim.  Dammit, you're not going to make it!  You accelerate at Superman speed and come just short of peeing on the back of your underwear before plopping down.  That cooling sensation you feel has nothing to do with a York Peppermint Patty. It's the feel of your naked cheeks kissing the toilet seat.  Major ew.

Hmm...interesting...why do 3 of the scenarios involve your undies?  Deserves some pondering.  So does all the other crazy things we hack through in the Damsel Jungle.  But, right now I have heels to repair, Betty Boop underwear to burn, and an ass to disinfect with Lysol.