“We did it!” I shouted into the air, on speaker, leaving a voicemail for your dad. I would’ve quoted Borat, “Suc-cess!” but I didn’t think of at the time. (Note to self: Next life, come back even sharper, or would that make me David Letterman?)
We were driving, pulling out of the gym parking lot, and we had done it: I dropped you guys off at the gym’s daycare center, and you had a good time! Nobody cried! Are we over separation anxiety? For a minute? At least for today’s sake, we were for twenty-five.
“Mommy must be so happy!” the nice young girl watching you said when I returned and was packing us up. She meant in regards to exercising. And I was happy, but not for that. Let’s be honest here, I probably worked up a bigger sweat hauling you guys in and out of your stroller and into the car than I did on that elliptical machine, and when I say that, I mean I worked up a bigger sweat hauling you in and out of your stroller and into the car than I did on that elliptical machine, that awkward thing, making anyone who uses it look like Jar Jar Binks. I watched the Food Network…I read Jenny Lawson’s new book, “Let’s Pretend This Never Happened…” (watch how cool and socially with it I am in five, four, three, two #TheBloggess).
We did it…
In a job where there is no barometer of “good,” being a mom means never getting credit for the hard, hard work that is done. (Mother’s Day? Oh come on. That’s a nightmare just like any other holiday. The pressure. The overpriced restaurants. The forgetting to buy cards. And as long as you have a mother, Mother’s Day will never be about you.) What merits a good job, mom! And it’s a solo job, so who’s here to say it?
After this morning’s attempted recreation of the “red rum” scene from The Shining with poop on the sheets and bedroom wall instead of blood (you’re welcome!), I wrapped your bedding up in a ball and threw them in the washer under “sanitize, steam.”
I just took them out of the dryer and they are spotless, so clean…
Bring me a sticker, please, today is a gold star day.