What is there about being a mommy that means you don't get to be in the bathroom alone, ever?
Take last Sunday. We don't move too fast around here on Sunday mornings. I get up around 5, make a pot of coffee, give the begging cats their wet food, and curl up with my laptop to work on the lecture for Monday's class (or whatever needs working on. Sometimes it's Facebook.) I sit on the couch by the east window, watch the sun come up, and enjoy the stillness that comes with being up before everybody else on the block. Yes, I'm a morning person. It's a little sick but I've learned to deal with it.
Usually, sometime between 7 and 8, Miss L will wander out in her footie pajamas with the zoo animals on them, curly blond hair standing out all over, rubbing her eyes. "Mommy, you're here!" (I"m not sure why she so frequently sounds surprised about this.) Sometimes she'll give me a hug, sometimes she'll just announce, "It's time for Super Why!" and trundle off to the bedroom, where Daddy-O (who stays up till ungodly hours of the night playing His Little Games and therefore is of no use to anyone before about 11) is still asleep. She'll fix that. "Daddy, where's the remote? Daddy? Daaaaaaaaaaaaaddy? Where's the remote?" I hear sleepy mumblings from Daddy-O, then the jaunty singing of some happy cartoon show. Back to my computer. I can usually get another hour of work in.
Eventually, I make breakfast. Depending upon my level of motivation, this might be an elaborate spread including pancakes and eggs...or it might be toast with PB&J. Just depends on the Sunday. Miss L doesn't care as long as her tummy gets full.
Then, sometime around mid-morning, it's shower time. Daddy-O is up and chatting with Miss L at the table as she finishes her toast. I go into the bathroom. I close the door but don't lock it. Adjust the water to my desired level of "hot." Step in. Tip head back, let water cascade down my back. Ahh.
Doorknob rattles. Shower curtain sways slightly as the door opens. Miss L's voice: "Mommy, what are you doing?"
"I'm taking a shower."
"What does it do?" (This is her favorite questions at the moment.)
"It gets me nice and clean so I smell good." She ponders this. Toilet flushes. Twice. She is bored but reluctant to leave. "Go back out to Daddy, please."
"All right." Little footsteps pat-a-pat out. At least she's agreeable. She left the door open. Damn. I consider getting out and closing it, but the draft isn't too bad, so I don't.
I reach for the shampoo, squirt some out, lather it into my hair. Halfway through the lathering process, in saunters Daddy-O. Now, the two-year-old I can understand strolling in like she owns the place (which she basically does)...but for God's sake, I don't bother HIM when he's in the shower. Nevertheless...he begins speaking.
"Hey..." Pause. "Mumblemumble something the internet mumble peanuts mumblemumble timbucktu gravel chainsaw. Okay?"
"What in the hell did you just say?"
"Mumblemumble squeegee harumph koalas bog petard Christmas."
"Can't this wait till after my shower?" Not only can I not understand him (Daddy-O is a Grand Champion Mumbler), I don't care, and I'm starting to get irritated.
"Fine!" He walks out, pouting. I often tell people I have two children: a two-year-old and a twenty-six-year-old.
"Close the door!" I peek out. He didn't. It's still half open. I still don't get out and push it shut. Back to washing my hair.
I am rinsing when I hear the bathroom door bump into the wall. NOW which one is it? Seconds later, the shower curtain wiggles: nudgey nudgey.
One white paw sneaks around the edge of the curtain, followed by a gold-and-white whiskered face. It's the Smaller One. He bats the curtain open a few inches. Behind him, I can see the Large One sitting, waiting expectantly, her big green eyes filled with loving condescension. The Smaller One goes and sits next to her. They both stare at me.
"Traitors."
Neither cat blinks. They sit there and continue staring at me until I get out and dry off. I feel sort of like a circus sideshow act. Maybe the Monkey Woman, since I didn't shave.
"Is there a point you're trying to make with all this?"
Not a mew, not a movement. Their mocking stare says it all: Next time, lock the door, stupid. And we want more cat food.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Beware of singing toys.
This is an introduction that isn't really an introduction, just a collection of observations.
Adult life is weird. It's equal parts nostalgia, juggling mangoes, toys that sing (that part multiplies exponentially after you reproduce), coffee, ten-cent armchairs, turkey hats, Velveeta cheese, overlong car trips, dark alleys, sunrises, and Wile E. Coyote falling off a cliff for the thousandth time. I write poems but I don't know that that means anything. I'm a smart-ass, which may be more important.
I have one surprise daughter, which means I fall into the Toys That Sing Exponent. This is really the best thing ever, though I didn't know it at the time (meaning the "surprise" time, and not necessarily referring to the singing toys, because they're ever-present and sometimes turn themselves on at night, shouting out happy things in the deep dead of 2 a.m. purely to scare the bejesus out of me). Somehow, one wound up in my car trunk, so that when I turn a corner too sharply, it bellows out, "LET'S GET OUR TELESCOPE!!!! EL TELESCOPIO!!!!!" in a shrill voice. The trunk toy happens to be Backpack, from Dora. Backpack reminds me of this little guy I used to work with in my restaurant years, Manny the Dishwasher. He talked like that too, accent and everything, and he always shouted random things in Spanish at odd moments. I'd walk through the kitchen carrying a tray full of ketchup bottles to refill, and he'd scream from the dishwashing station, "UN SACAPUNTAS!!!!" (which, I think, means "pencil sharpener"). That, or he'd sing, which is another reason Backpack reminds me of Manny. The main difference between the two on that score is that Backpack has no off button or volume control (the person who designed this toy was obviously not a parent). Manny, at least, would pipe down if you promised to buy him a beer after work.
But I was talking about being a parent, right? Before I got off on the "Manny" tangent? I should also state that I only had Backpack in my trunk for a short car trip to the grocery store, and then out he came. (It's that lying-to-the-tell-the-truth-poet-thing, sorry. Get used to it. If the cat needs to have two heads for the blog to make better sense, the cat will probably wind up with two heads.) I have two cats, the Larger One Who Rules the Universe, and the Smaller One Who Needs a Crash Helmet. The Smaller One needs a crash helmet because he has a sunny personality and is not bright enough (yet) to run from my daughter, who has succeeded in putting him in a drawer at least two times. Pets in drawers...one more thing they don't warn you about parenthood.
So far, we've covered singing toys, mildly disturbing former co-workers, why I exaggerate and tweak the details sometimes but won't actually lie to you in a global sense, the joys of parenting, and kitties in peril. That may be enough for my first post. We'll see how this goes.
Adult life is weird. It's equal parts nostalgia, juggling mangoes, toys that sing (that part multiplies exponentially after you reproduce), coffee, ten-cent armchairs, turkey hats, Velveeta cheese, overlong car trips, dark alleys, sunrises, and Wile E. Coyote falling off a cliff for the thousandth time. I write poems but I don't know that that means anything. I'm a smart-ass, which may be more important.
I have one surprise daughter, which means I fall into the Toys That Sing Exponent. This is really the best thing ever, though I didn't know it at the time (meaning the "surprise" time, and not necessarily referring to the singing toys, because they're ever-present and sometimes turn themselves on at night, shouting out happy things in the deep dead of 2 a.m. purely to scare the bejesus out of me). Somehow, one wound up in my car trunk, so that when I turn a corner too sharply, it bellows out, "LET'S GET OUR TELESCOPE!!!! EL TELESCOPIO!!!!!" in a shrill voice. The trunk toy happens to be Backpack, from Dora. Backpack reminds me of this little guy I used to work with in my restaurant years, Manny the Dishwasher. He talked like that too, accent and everything, and he always shouted random things in Spanish at odd moments. I'd walk through the kitchen carrying a tray full of ketchup bottles to refill, and he'd scream from the dishwashing station, "UN SACAPUNTAS!!!!" (which, I think, means "pencil sharpener"). That, or he'd sing, which is another reason Backpack reminds me of Manny. The main difference between the two on that score is that Backpack has no off button or volume control (the person who designed this toy was obviously not a parent). Manny, at least, would pipe down if you promised to buy him a beer after work.
But I was talking about being a parent, right? Before I got off on the "Manny" tangent? I should also state that I only had Backpack in my trunk for a short car trip to the grocery store, and then out he came. (It's that lying-to-the-tell-the-truth-poet-thing, sorry. Get used to it. If the cat needs to have two heads for the blog to make better sense, the cat will probably wind up with two heads.) I have two cats, the Larger One Who Rules the Universe, and the Smaller One Who Needs a Crash Helmet. The Smaller One needs a crash helmet because he has a sunny personality and is not bright enough (yet) to run from my daughter, who has succeeded in putting him in a drawer at least two times. Pets in drawers...one more thing they don't warn you about parenthood.
So far, we've covered singing toys, mildly disturbing former co-workers, why I exaggerate and tweak the details sometimes but won't actually lie to you in a global sense, the joys of parenting, and kitties in peril. That may be enough for my first post. We'll see how this goes.
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