Reflection
So, it's Sunday night and we Hofmanns decided to avoid planning/preparing/cleaning up after dinner and just went to Dogfish Head.
A couple hoppy beers (and dinner) later, I found myself strapping my screaming toddler into her car seat. I can't remember what she was mad about, but I'm guessing it had something to do with me insisting she hold my hand in the parking lot or some such.
Anyway, I clicked and tightened and closed the door. As I did, I got a good look at my reflection in the glass of her window. I wasn't thrilled with what I saw--essentially, a cliche of mommyhood.
Despite putting actual effort (actual! effort!) into my hair this morning, it looked ratty and haphazard, held somewhat in place with claw clip and a valiant if failing effort by bobby pins. My make-up had come off after hours and hours and hours of mothering, and I was wearing a ratty Target beige sweater (with holes!) because I hate restaurant air conditioning and this is the one I can easily stuff in my hand bag (along with a sippy cup and bib).
Is this ME? I thought. Ack. Shit.
I got into the passenger seat. As I clicked my own seat belt, I felt ridiculously relieved when I caught sight of my slightly slutty fire-engine red nails I had painted that morning, on a whim, thinking the color was fun and kind of retro. Red. Working girl red. Mistress red. Inappropriate for daytime red. Surely, it made my whole "look" totally mismatched, but whatever. My slutty nails were a lifeline, a reminder that I existed Beyond Children.
As we drove home, Charlotte asked us to play the Little Mermaid soundtrack. As delighted as we were that she did not request Frozen, Chris and I both gently said NO and put the station on Lithium, which is mainly grunge rock. Of the nineties. You know, our effing YOUTH.
Lorelei proceeded to cry-scream the rest of the drive home while Charlotte talked nonstop about nothing. "Find the beat," I instructed Chris, who looked ready to pull over and ditch us all. "One-two-three-four. Just listen to the drummer and ignore our spawn." I held his hand with my sluttily-painted-nailed hand.
Eventually we got home. And, after chasing a stark-ass naked Lorelei who didn't want a diaper change, and who managed to create a giant puddle in the 37 seconds in which she had no diaper, and after 5,000 renditions of "Row, Row" and every Karen Katz board book on the market, Child #1 was down. Eventually, Charlotte was down, too.
Children are incredible. They suck the life out of you but can instantly flash an uber-Lorelei grin or a charming-Charlotte smirk, and you think NET GAIN! NET GAIN! In the end, TOTALLY A NET GAIN!
I marvel at people with more than two kids. Like, are we doing something wrong in that we're TOTALLY A-OKAY at the moment with our two children? These creatures are so! much! WORK!
But fear not, faithful readers. I have a hair appointment this week. And a whole freaking bottle of red nail polish. I might look like death warmed over the next time you see me, but my hair will be brown (and, um, not streaked with a color that rhymes with "fray") and my nails will look refreshingly retro-hooker. Let's call that a WIN.
A couple hoppy beers (and dinner) later, I found myself strapping my screaming toddler into her car seat. I can't remember what she was mad about, but I'm guessing it had something to do with me insisting she hold my hand in the parking lot or some such.
Anyway, I clicked and tightened and closed the door. As I did, I got a good look at my reflection in the glass of her window. I wasn't thrilled with what I saw--essentially, a cliche of mommyhood.
Despite putting actual effort (actual! effort!) into my hair this morning, it looked ratty and haphazard, held somewhat in place with claw clip and a valiant if failing effort by bobby pins. My make-up had come off after hours and hours and hours of mothering, and I was wearing a ratty Target beige sweater (with holes!) because I hate restaurant air conditioning and this is the one I can easily stuff in my hand bag (along with a sippy cup and bib).
Is this ME? I thought. Ack. Shit.
I got into the passenger seat. As I clicked my own seat belt, I felt ridiculously relieved when I caught sight of my slightly slutty fire-engine red nails I had painted that morning, on a whim, thinking the color was fun and kind of retro. Red. Working girl red. Mistress red. Inappropriate for daytime red. Surely, it made my whole "look" totally mismatched, but whatever. My slutty nails were a lifeline, a reminder that I existed Beyond Children.
As we drove home, Charlotte asked us to play the Little Mermaid soundtrack. As delighted as we were that she did not request Frozen, Chris and I both gently said NO and put the station on Lithium, which is mainly grunge rock. Of the nineties. You know, our effing YOUTH.
Lorelei proceeded to cry-scream the rest of the drive home while Charlotte talked nonstop about nothing. "Find the beat," I instructed Chris, who looked ready to pull over and ditch us all. "One-two-three-four. Just listen to the drummer and ignore our spawn." I held his hand with my sluttily-painted-nailed hand.
Eventually we got home. And, after chasing a stark-ass naked Lorelei who didn't want a diaper change, and who managed to create a giant puddle in the 37 seconds in which she had no diaper, and after 5,000 renditions of "Row, Row" and every Karen Katz board book on the market, Child #1 was down. Eventually, Charlotte was down, too.
Children are incredible. They suck the life out of you but can instantly flash an uber-Lorelei grin or a charming-Charlotte smirk, and you think NET GAIN! NET GAIN! In the end, TOTALLY A NET GAIN!
I marvel at people with more than two kids. Like, are we doing something wrong in that we're TOTALLY A-OKAY at the moment with our two children? These creatures are so! much! WORK!
But fear not, faithful readers. I have a hair appointment this week. And a whole freaking bottle of red nail polish. I might look like death warmed over the next time you see me, but my hair will be brown (and, um, not streaked with a color that rhymes with "fray") and my nails will look refreshingly retro-hooker. Let's call that a WIN.
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