This is me this morning.
I has a big saaaaaaaaad face to go with the glob of toothpaste on my chin (that is not doing anything to help dry up the PILES of acne clusters popping up all around my wrinkly face).
I. have. failed.
Muchos sickos has been the theme here since Mono hijacked my son’s body in October and the fatigue is a big bag of crap that is flung in my face every damn morning when I try to peel his exhausted ass out of bed. And today the peeling didn’t go well so he missed the bus.
Curse you nebulizer treatment! Curse you and your slow fog!
But the worst part of it all wasn’t the sickness. Nope. Despite feeling like flung dung, my kid had nothing but a smile for everyone today, including his sister, who told him that she would rather swim in a pool of horse pee than to smell his breath before she flopped down on the couch and went back to sleep.
Dealing with her later would be so much fun.
I warned her that I would not be happy if I had to run her around due to lateness. I was not in the mood at all, because unlike her brother, she is not a morning smiler.
Coming in April of 2013.
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So despite the fact that I have the plague and a slathering of minty fresh paste on my chin, my son wanted me to walk him into school so that I could speak to one of his teachers or some other responsible adult face to face in order to make sure there was no confusion with regard to a previous confusing thing (that doesn’t need clarification for the purpose of this blog post).
For the love of God NO!
I have toothpaste on my chin and my glasses are busted and I’m wearing PJ pants that are torn near the crotch, way too short and stained with bleach and I haven’t brushed my teeth since…..maybe Monday, I can’t remember. And my hair was looking like Bart Simpson’s if a litter of kittens slept in it for a week and a half.
Even my low standards aren’t this low. I could easily have auditioned for a part as a walker for The Walking Dead, this morning with coffee stained pull over, bloodshot eyes, ass breath and crusty eye boogers. I begged for mercy.
“Dude, NO. Look at me. I just can’t go in there. I’ll just shoot off an email for clarification, okay?” I pleaded my case.
“Besides, won’t you be a little embarrassed to be seen with me looking like this?” I crossed my eyes at him and stuck out my tongue, you know, because looking the way I did wasn’t terrible enough.
“Like what?” he asked.
“ARE YOU KIDDING? LOOK AT ME! SMELL ME! Buddy, I can’t go into your school looking like this. Just let me email your teachers, okay?” I couldn’t believe the look on his face.
Derp…..LIKE WHAT? Come on!
“You don’t look or smell any different than usual, Mom.” he replied.
So I grabbed a Hello Kitty Hat out of a bag from the back of the car that was going to Goodwill, shrugged and went on into the building with him. Sadly, he wasn’t even a teeny tiny bit embarrassed while I stood there flicking dried toothpaste off my chin onto the floor in the front office, trying to avoid eye contact with people.
I felt like a loser. But at this point, it was not because of how I looked, which I realize should have been the source of my sadness, but because I realized I had lost the ability to embarrass him and he doesn’t see the difference between hot mess me and clean and neat me.
I lose. I am a loser. One of the coolest and most powerful weapons in the parenting arsenal is the sword of embarrassment! Swinging that thing around for a big win is the best! At least it used to be. I have lost this battle. I can’t help but worry that I might have lost the war too. If I can’t embarrass a teenage boy looking like I look today, what do I have left? Should I start singing You Don’t Know Your Beautiful, by One Direction right there in the office? Is that what it would take? If I felt better, I might have done just that.
So I went home and woke up my daughter, again, determined to get her to school on time so that I didn’t have to face anyone there looking like a walker. It’s bad enough that most of the people in the neighborhood think I’m merely a clumsy, bizarre idiot with poor social skills who walks her obese, goose poop eating, mentally unstable dog while wearing Crocs and boxer underwear when it’s 40 degrees out.
I sat down on the sofa next to her and stroked her hair and whispered, “It’s wake up time sweet dumpling puss.”
She shot straight up in bed and started squealing as soon as she saw my face. “Oh my GOD Mom, what is wrong with your face? OHMSYGDSHB HDSOIDF I don’t even dsdkfjtdsi…..GROSS! AND YOUR BREATH IS KILLING ME.”
How sweet of her to notice!
And it just got better when she yelled, “DAD! CAN YOU PLEASE TAKE ME TO SCHOOL. Mom will just embarrass me with her grosening-ness!”
I felt like this saying and doing this –
You win some, you lose some.