Things that bother me this week (settle in, we could be here a spell):
Pants.
I tried to buy my first post-preggo pants this past weekend. It was an epic fail on all fronts, mostly the posterior. Silly me, I’d thought it was high time to ditch the elastic-waisted maternity jeans. It is clearly not time. It may never BE time. (Sure, some of you keep telling me that it’ll HAPPEN, you just HAD the baby! This is false. She is two and a half months old. Do not give me these kind of excuses- it just paves the way for stretchy pants and oversized ‘Hang in there, Kitten!’ sweatshirts until she’s of school age.)
Anyway. I tried on seven pairs of jeans. Two were the next size up from what I usually wear, two were the size up from that, and two were even the size up from that. One was this shapeless pair of what I derisively labeled ‘Mom jeans.’
The first two came up to my knees (PLEASE tell me that the width of my knees has changed- that would be perfection) the next two fit over my hips but wouldn’t button (I wanted to take the extra material from the wide legs and add it to the laughably tiny waistband), the two after that buttoned just fine but left a cavernous amount of room in the behind and were somehow too short. Even the ‘Mom jeans’ left me cold. (Not from lack of fabric, mind you. There was plenty of that.) Apparently, to wear ‘Mom jeans’ one must be shaped roughly like an onion. Bulbous, pointy, sassy writing on the butt. You know, an onion.
I ended up buying two pairs of yoga pants from Old Navy- because nothing says ‘my body is not yet a real size’ like stretchy pants. (Hang in there!)
And, ok, I am angered at Tupperware.
WHY does Tupperware never dry? It never does. You can leave it in the dishrack or the washer for days and STILL there will be a few stubborn droplets firmly attached to the lip or ridge or whatever the heck that place is called that makes the lid go sqoosh. You can’t even reach it by dishtowel- oh no- I think the only thing that could reach it would be a Q-tip, and I AM NOT ABOUT TO Q-TIP MY TUPPERWARE, thankyouverymuch. I barely manage to clean the dryer’s lint trap (do NOT get me started on the lint trap.) But why does it retain water so well? (Or, rather, so badly?) Is Tupperware actually part water? Does it biodegrade? I’m a terrible housewife- I do not have these answers.
P.J. would tell me that this is because I am NOT a housewife, despite my best efforts to not work outside of the home. Do you know how many salami sandwiches I make for him each week? Regardless of whether or not he even LIKES salami? Or how many socks I match up in evenly folded pairs? (No balling-up of socks here, lady!) I do not vacuum- but I DO start the Roomba with my foot. I rearrange furniture under the pretense of Feng Shui- (I’m Irish, what do I know from Asian arts?) and light appropriately scented candles to mask that…whatever it is…that wafts from the downstairs bathroom’s pipes. I watch copious amounts of ‘The Ghost Whisperer’ which, admittedly, has little to do with housewivery but is something I’d commit even further to, were I allowed to remain in the actual house. AND, most importantly, I rear his child (which makes it sound like I lead her backwards throughout our home. I do not. That is how I sprained my ankle in eighth grade. Solo. Not with Nora.)
And peeing. Why must I use the bathroom throughout the day, especially during working hours?
It’s made especially tough when trying to use the facilities if a newborn baby, say, is slung across your chest, fast asleep. Put her down, you say? Certainly! The two options available on Wednesdays and Fridays are a) on the floor of the pocket bathroom or b) in the living room with the two year old who deals with any sound Nora makes by trying to shove a rattle directly up her nostril. (“She LIKES this, Kiki!!”)
Thusly, sling-peeing. It should be an Olympic event. The precision, the tension, the crowd-pleasing humor. (The back story, the interview, the killer soundtrack- I love the Olympics.) One false move and it’s all over. The Russian judge scores harshly. (I could make a European In the Bathroom joke here, but I won’t.)
Another reason to leave the baby strapped against me today? The two-year old gal chose to test the deepness of Nora’s sleep (result- not very) by screaming “Are you sleeping, Baby Nora?!) into an electronic voice-changing bullhorn. Set to Darth Vader. Inches from Nora’s head. After being informed that little-littles need quiet tones AND that yelling near the baby earns a time-out, I was told that Nora LIKES voices. (I fear that before long the babe will be hearing voices.)
Mom. Of. The. Year.
To cement my Mom-ness? (Momity? Mom-ocity? Momitude? Ok, momitude.) I actually just uttered the phrase, “We don’t lick napkins.” (“Why, Kiki?”) I actually don’t know. It just sounded like the thing to say. So go ahead, everyone. Have a happy Thursday.
Lick the napkin.
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