“Is that a gun?” I said squinting at the little orange-haired man on the corner of the Entenmann’s St. Patrick’s Day cupcake box, “oh, no, it’s bagpipes.”
That’s my first instinct, a gun, because I am a warrior. Moms are warriors. We could be Navy Seals if we didn’t lose our minds during pregnancy (thanks, Mother Nature!). We are on a mission and are dedicated to that mission with a one-track mind: To constantly scout out danger. Our minds loop 24/7 about impending doom.
“A SHARP EDGE!”
“A BUTTER KNIFE!”
“A SALT AND PEPPER SHAKER,” and say it in slow-motion with me, “Noo-ooo-oooh…”
I met a guy at a bar once a long time ago who said he was Holden Caulfield. I said, so am I. He was so flabbergasted that I knew who that was and what that meant, as someone who says “dude” as much as I did I guess could come off as not that smart.
“Everybody is Holden Caulfield,” I said. “Everybody wants to be a catcher in the rye…”
What wisdom spoken over “Pour Some Sugar on Me” in a dirty bar at the Jersey Shore.
Become a parent, and suddenly it’s safety. You wish people a safe and healthy New Year. You want the world to be a better place. A safer place. A place where you can guys can scamper around so happy about everything. Today you picked up a blue plastic garbage can, Baby Boy, and handed it to me like it was the greatest thing on earth, here! You did the same, Baby Girl, with a shoe.
Time for bed now. Time for me to curl on my side. Slide my hands between my cheek and my pillow. Tuck my knees up to my chest. Close my eyes. I’ll sleep, sure, but I won’t rest.
After all, I am a warrior.