Who are you calling Motherly?

Through the grace of God yesterday was a pretty good day - especially when you consider how amazingly crummy Friday was - and today is shaping up to be acceptable too. For the most part.

(She pooped, people. She pooped! And I have you to thank. That Babylax stuff works like a charm. The only problem? Chicky was actually kind of excited to have "medicine in her bum". Who is this child and how is it possible she sprung forth from my woman parts?)

Yesterday morning I shipped Chicky off with her grandfather for her weekly sleepover. I had to stop myself from shoving them out the door, I must admit, but she just had to go. Apparently, three is coming earlier than we had expected. I can't take three. Three is a bitch wrapped up in a dictator surrounded by a pain in the ass. I may not survive three.

After they left I finished a book I had been putting off finishing.

I took a nap.

And... that was pretty much it. I might have eaten a Twinkie or five. Yes indeed, a pretty good day.

That evening I had to go to work but it was just for a couple of hours. Although, how I can hurt myself in such a short period of time is beyond me. I really need to stop pretending I'm not pregnant, I don't have a history of back problems and because of the baby my pelvis is not being stretched to the point of breaking.

This morning I slept until 10am. I would have slept longer but my grandmother called for her weekly guilt trip and woke me up. It's hard to fall back into peaceful slumber when you feel like an ungrateful little shit.

But I really needed that beauty sleep. Not necessarily because of the pregnancy or because my dear husband leaves me regularly to play rising superstar for his company, traveling all around the country pushing their product and leaving me to parent my precious little beast all by myself. No, I have a much better reason for staying in bed so long.

Oh yes, a very good reason.

Remember how I said yesterday was a good day? Yeah, well, not entirely.

Last night after work I stopped for pizza*. After I ordered my small pepperoni - a pie I was going to regret later when I tried to sleep and the heartburn got to me - I sat down with one of those free real estate brochures that are always hanging around places like that. As I was flipping through the book the woman behind the counter tried to strike up a conversation with me - something I usually frown upon since I hate making idle chit chat with people. Especially after 8pm. Or any time of the day for that matter.

After a few pleasantries - all from her because I'm not pleasant, especially after 8pm. Not even to people feeding my cravings - she looked at me for a bit longer than was comfortable.

"Aren't you that woman who comes in here with all her kids?" she inquired.

I shook my head, "No, that's not me. You must have me confused with some other woman."

This happens to me a lot. I've been mistaken for someone's best friend's sister's cousin's friend, told I look just like someone's favorite niece or a long lost best friend from college since I was a teen. So it didn't strike me as odd that this woman thought I was someone else. And I was wearing my standard dog training uniform: Sweatshirt, jeans, and a baseball hat and I had on an older, nondescript parka. I was the proverbial blank slate.

I gave her my most winning smile, "I hear that a lot, that I look like someone else. I guess I just have that kind of face..." You know, familiar.

"Yeah," she interrupted. "Motherly."

Huh?

Motherly?

Did she just say...

Oh, no she DIDN'T.

I buried my face in that real estate magazine so as to stop myself from jumping across that counter and strangling her. All idle chit chat ended quicker than you can say "It's time for Botox". After a few homicidal minutes I paid for my pizza and drove home, checking my face in the rearview mirror the whole way. Motherly? Really?

When I got home I did what any reasonable woman would do - I abandoned my precious pizza and ran to the bathroom mirror. I pulled and I stretched and I poked at my poor, apparently motherly looking face. Motherly? Me? I've always been told I look young for my age, dammit. Especially with a ball cap on! Who did that woman think she was?? Motherly.

Pssh.

They say daughters steal your beauty, but I guess they steal your youth too. And it all happens between the ages of 2 and 3. By the time your kid is a teenager you're wearing knitted sweaters with pictures of kittens on them and calling all your kids' friends "dear". I'm guessing anyway, because I am not going down that easily. I am not giving in to this motherly crap without a fight.

So what's it going to be? Thigh-high boots and a tube top? Purple streaks in my hair and facial piercings? (Hi, T!) Or maybe next time I'll throw my pizza back in that woman's face.

How's that for motherly, bitch?

However, if I did that I'd probably feel bad and rush behind the counter to help her clean up. There, there dear. Mommy's just having a bad day. Please don't cry.

I'm doomed, aren't I?

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*I apologize for not posting any recipes that I've prepared yet. With the hubs traveling I haven't been cooking much. As soon as I can pin him down for more than 10 hours I'll make some real food from your recommendations. Pinky swear. Would this Mommy lie to you?