My mother just left. She offered to watch today Junior so:
1. I can rest my sprained ankle
2. Chuck can spend the day job-hunting
3. Chuck and I can hang out
WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK. WINK.
(Her winks, not mine. How can I possibly “hang out” with my husband wearing an air-cast? I guess if I hang from the ceiling with my good leg and swing to the side and Chuck stands on a chair and faces northbound with his left arm at a 30-degree angle and…oh, forget it.)
Because I am such a devoted mother, I hopped out to my mother’s car to say good-bye to my darling son. I admit it, I was bummed that I have a whole day off from work and that I can’t spend it with Junior. Yesterday, he actually kissed my boo boo. He only stepped on my gimpy foot on purpose four times before having to go into time-out. And oh, how I will miss him grabbing my crutches and yelling, “Can I try? Can I TRY? Please can I TRYYYYYYYY?” and then the ensuing meltdown.
Yes, parting ways was going to be heart-wrenching.
My mother strapped Junior into the car seat and I leaned in.
“I love you, I love you, I love you!” I cooed. I kissed his tender little cheek and caressed his soft, silken waves. “I’ll miss you! You’re my love bug! I’ll see you tonight, Sweetie. I love you, I love you, I love you. I love—”
“Close the door, Mommy?”
“Close the door? I’m going bye-bye.”
My mother snorted. And not a delicate, dainty snort, but one that probably hurt up to her sinuses.
“You can both bite me,” I said.
Parenting reality check #458,987,567,984: When given the option of being spoiled and pampered and indulged by Granny vs. watching Mommy hobble around the house and moan, "I can't stand this!" for the day, your toddler will choose Granny.
Now if you'll excuse me, Bravo is calling. (Tom Colicchio, you are so snarky!)
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.