I’m herding my two toddlers to the park. Both are weaving all over the place, like college kids on graduation day. The glee is also all over the place; for the boys, it’s about their new bike helmets. My boys know how to work huge, shiny domes on their heads, I tell you. I am all excited because my friend Alissa will be there, and she might be bringing salsa.
We make it – the distance of three blocks only took us about as long as one excruciating Caillou episode, but we are in. I am seated, ready for some chips, and here comes Alissa:
“I didn’t bring the salsa.” She knows. I didn’t even have to ask. Salsa is big.
I deflate, but I will soldier on. I have hummus at home.
Then Alissa says, “But, I did get you (flourish) THIS!”
(My lawyer would like to interject that she didn’t really “flourish” per se, but my gosh, lighten up. It’s called author’s license, and I got one.)
Alissa hands me, with a grin, the TEN PIECE RUBBERMAID FOOD CONTAINER SET I HAVE BEEN SALIVATING OVER EVERY TIME SHE BRINGS LUNCH. (It is important to note the the “salivating” is figurative. If I was really salivating, that would be just plain gross.)
Forget salsa, people. It just got real.
I clutch the TEN PIECE RUBBERMAID FOOD CONTAINER SET to my chest and whisper, “Oh my. This is.. I can’t… It’s just. I can now have a salad with the dressing separate! Do you know what this MEANS?”
Alissa nods. “Yep. The dressing. It’ll be separate.”
I gaze at my TEN PIECE RUBBERMAID FOOD CONTAINER SET. “No more peanut butter crusty leftovers from the boys. I can pack my own little container of cottage cheese HERE. And some fruit, all cut up and layered, HERE. And oh!” gasp, “It’s BPA free.”
Alissa is starting to look at me a little funny. Why? I wonder. And then, it occurs to me that I might be getting a teensy bit too overjoyed by the Tupperware on my lap because at this point I’m almost teary.
This is what happens to some of us. We have kids and then, you know what? The whole enchilada just up and changes on you, in the blink of 9 months. The enchilada used to be: new shoes, sales at Nordstroms, ITALY, for Pete’s sake! Even Pete’s Cathedral IN Italy!
The enchilada has found food storage.
(But, still, they have adorable little chartreuse lids and they NEST. THERE IS NESTING GOING ON.)
It’s clear: I don’t get out much anymore because, toddlers. But something I also should clarify: I don’t resent the wee boys. I just resent that food storage just became more exciting to me than offering Patton Oswalt a granola bar in the airport (which DID happen, I’ll have you know, and I think he fell just a little bit in love with me that very minute. So what if his wife was standing 20 feet away; WE HAD A MOMENT, friends.)
But I digress.
I am interesting. I know it. There’s something in this Momsie life of mine that is like a Mountain Dew commercial. It’s just… Mountain Dew just makes me urpy, and I can’t drink the stuff after 4 pm; I’ll be up all night. Plus it looks like pee, and I have enough of that (at least half of which is not even my OWN) festooning my life right now.
Ok. I told you that story to tell you this one:
It’s 6 am. Momsie is going to run on her treadmill in the scary basement where crickets go to die.
She gets on the treadmill with no difficulties. Always a good start. Proceeds to pull her hair back with a Hello Kitty headband from 1987. This makes her feel all:
At this point she realizes her running bra keeps curling up – it likes to do its own thing.
This is no problem. She just takes off her shirt, folds up the running bra so it’s half its size, which works FINE for Momsie’s anatomy.
She puts on her ear buds. Small hitch here – now she decides to just leave the shirt off because untangling the ear buds is tedious and it’s 6 am and she hasn’t had coffee and CORDS. They’re HARD.
Ok, starts treadmill. Slowly starts gaining speed.
Realizes, too late, her shorts ride up. She hates those shorts. Target shorts. Pfft.
Decides to just power through the upping of the shorts.
Two minutes later she can’t take it. The shorts are heading for Canada on her frame which is unacceptable.*
She decides to do the most logical thing. She takes off the shorts.
She does this while treadmill is still moving. This makes her feel all:
And then, her running bra goes for a border crossing. She hums “God Bless America” and gets it back, but askew.
This leads to her then belting out “Victory” with Miss Yolanda. Nobody can keep up with Yolanda and her gospel choir like a white girl from the suburbs. “Praise you, Jesus!”
And that’s about when the toddler approaches her, stealthily, from behind.
It merited a lot of questions.
Here’s the point: (“Hallelujah! “from the lawyer. “It’s amazing that she even admits to having one!”)
AHEM. If I can run, sing gospel, and do it all in my Hanes and with a rebel bra, then,
I AM XTREME MOMSIE.
BOOM. (*drops mic.*) (not shorts.)
*For the record, I think Canada is very nice. After all, Canada gave us: