My Kids Make Me Bald But the Margaritas Were Worth It.
Last we heard, I was in the process of outsourcing just about every conceivable domestic and motherly responsibility, shy of changing my kids' diapers, so that I could spend my days pretending like I didn't have a husband or children. Or so the Internets thought.
Just two months later and I've not only fired our cleaning team, whose title I use very loosely here as they should more aptly be named our "overly expensive half-assed, kind of clean-ing team," but our Mother's Helper also up and left me in favor of furthering her education. How dare she, amiright?
So here I am, back at square one, cooking my own meals, cleaning my own toilets and for heaven's sake, caring for my own three children. I just don't know how you women do it all. I'm even more exhausted just thinking about doing half of it.
You know I'm being facetious, right? That I don't mean nearly everything I say here but that truth does lie in the fact that a) our cleaning team really sucked and b) the Fabulous Amanda really did leave for college. The irony here is that I'm not usually a stickler when it comes to spending money. This is no secret and it's probably one of the few qualities about me that my husband isn't fond of- the ability to hemorrhage money without a second thought.
But when a contract clearly states that bathrooms will be wiped clean from top to bottom and kitchen appliances will be wiped clean and wood floors thoroughly mopped and steamed on a monthly basis as agreed upon (among other things), and these things are in no way done each month, I have a hard time forking over money that could be put towards other things. Like a Roomba that doesn't smell like cigarette smoke and curse around my children as it sweep and mops my floors.
I, on the other hand, have tried my best not to curse as I lay out shorts and t-shirts for the boys morning after morning as we stifle through eighty degree days in late September. I'm trying my best to remain patient as I wait for Fall to settle in around these parts. I've put off decorating the house, a little bit out of loyalty to the season but mostly out of sheer laziness at the thought of having to dredge up and sift through the boxes of faux pumpkins and leaf garlands. I do, however, have no shame in paying $17.00 at the local market for five Honeycrisp apples. Fall, get in my belly.
My sister-in-law and I took the boys out to lunch the other day- a feat that truly happens once or twice in a blue moon because, even after experiencing the horrific pain that comes with having a root canal, I would gladly choose that procedure over dining in public with my 2 and 4 year old. Actually, I amend that statement. My 4 year old can be pacified with electronics, a crayon and a hand drawn maze to tackle. There's no hope for my 2 year old, who at one point, had our server convinced he had it in for him as he was chanting, "I will kill him! I will kill him" each time he approached our table. The receiver of such grim foreshadowing was not our server however, but rather the stink bug that wouldn't leave my 2 year old alone. You want to laugh and/or feel mildly uncomfortable around people? Have your 2 year old say the word "kill" over and over again. But the margaritas were worth it.
I wish I could say my kids were giving my grey hair but in fact, I'm going bald. Balder than I've ever been after having a baby. Like so bald, in fact, that I actually have a bald spot that I'm shamelessly trying to hide with a Donald Trump comb over. I always chop my hair after I have a baby and this is usually the time I get a little snip-happy. It's typically around February that I begin drastically hating my decision to chop so I now find myself in the conundrum of "To Chop or Not to Chop." It's taken me about a year to grow out the last Spontaneous Decision I made (it's all real, by the way since there was some question about my use of extensions- Pregnancy Hair is a glorious thing) and I'm torn as to whether or not I want to begin the oft laborious process all over again. Every time a little slobbery baby hand entwines itself in my hair, however, or my husband is left picking up hamster-sized balls of discarded hair in the shower, the decision seems all too clear.
Have you seen the leather biker pant JCrew is selling on their website for $725? All I have to say about that is, "go home JCrew. You're drunk." It seems as if someone is getting a bit full of themselves lately and no matter how many margaritas I consume during a Sunday lunch, that is never, ever okay. It is okay, however, to head to the nearest Forever21 and purchase a superbly cheap look-a-like, even though at that very moment you might be the store's oldest patron by a solid 10 years, butt-cellulite and three kids.