You know those moms that totally over-do everything? Like the ones who spend 60 dollars on personalized Valentines for their kid’s pre-k class?
Or bring a tray of organic grapes and imported cheese and crackers to their child’s IEP meeting? Or go to Kinkos at 8 a.m. to laser print spec sheets on their kid’s strengths and challenges, after being up until 2:30 a.m. creating them?
What kind of uptight “tries too hard” mother does this?
Certainly not me.
Okay, maybe it was me.
At least, I can still pull it together when it really matters.
Or can I?
It’s six hours later. Peter and I are racing home to get changed for swimming class. I have laid his suit out. We have just enough time to change and hop back in the car to make it in time.
I’m…searching for my swimsuit. You know, the hideous skirted “Mom suit” that covers just less than those jean skirts that the Duggar girls wear when they swim.
Shit, where is that thing? I mean, it’s ginormous. It’s not like it could go missing. Check the clock, 5:46…oh no…class starts in 14 minutes.
Peter is getting impatient. “Mommy, what happened to your clothes?” (Note to self: start making monthly contributions to his therapy fund now)
Think fast. Throw contents of underwear drawer on floor.
Find a swimsuit. Oh god, not THAT one. Not the one I bought at the J Crew sample sale. The bikini. The bikini with the itty-bitty triangle tops. You know the “goal suit”?
The one I’ve worn once. In the locked confines of my bedroom. Where I took digital photos as inspiration to never eat again and then hid that SD card in case I died unexpectedly or the CIA took my computer because I was patriot acted or something.
The one that I bought thinking that maybe some day, if I lost like 94 pounds, I might wear it for a nano-second in the eyes of my husband only.
Yes. That suit.
I put the suit on. Note to myself that I definitely need to make those therapy fund contributions weekly.
I throw a tank top over it and silently pray that no one has their corrective lenses with them.
I took my four-year old to a “Mommy and Me” swimming class in a hooker swimsuit that was easily 9 sizes too small.
I mean, who does that?
Who is so disorganized that they can’t even find their hideous skirted swimsuit?
Maybe someone who spent her morning picking out imported cheeses at Trader Joes.
So to the really sweet guy at Kinkos that said that I was “the most awesome mom ever”. Oh sugar, you only know the half of it.