On Tuesday night my single friend Carrie came over to cut my hair and help restore it to its natural color. Blond. If anyone asks, my natural color is blond.
Ellie and Lila are both at that fun little stage where they need my constant and unwavering attention every moment of every day, which makes going to the bathroom a real party by the way, so I was a little nervous about how this was going to go. Luckily, our other friend Amy also needed a haircut so she offered to come over and entertain them while waiting her turn.
She was 1/2 hour late.
It’s interesting what two years’ worth of conditioning can do to increase your tolerance of children acting like ass holes. For instance, after about five minutes Ellie walked over to the baby gate, yelled, and shook it because she wanted out.
My interpretation: Oh, good thing that wasn’t one of the bad screams or Carrie would think I’m a super bad Mom.
Carrie’s interpretation: KILL IT WITH FIRE!
The next morning, as Ellie was shoveling pancakes into her face and Lila was sucking down her second bottle I was trying to remember what I fed them for dinner the night before. Did I even feed them dinner? Oh Christ… did I forget to feed my kids dinner?
I texted Nick to ask if he remembered me feeding them dinner but apparently that wasn’t important enough for him to stop what he was doing at work and text back, so I quickly resorted to exposing myself and texted Carrie and Amy.
Me: Do either of you happen to remember if I fed my kids dinner last night?
Amy: You fed Lila stuff out of a plastic tub and Ellie ate pizza. Don’t you remember yelling at her to sit down when she eats?
Carrie: I remember one screaming for 10 minutes about yogurt. Now I know why.
Right. What has become one woman’s everyday mundane, insignificant enough not to recall, is another woman’s hysterectomy.