Friday, April 8, 2011

A Wino in the Making.

I pull a shirt over my head that reads , "Mother's of little boys work from son up to son down", and when my head emerges through the top I notice Gabriel spritzing himself with my perfume while wearing my bra like ear muffs and I think, "you have no idea...". I stroll to my bathroom mirror and criticize the figure, or lack thereof, at the woman staring back at me. I think it clings too much to the muffin top I'm sporting; but the high waisted jeans I bought from Costco do a pretty good job of hiding the mom belly I have come to recognize as the cost of doing business with my uterus.

Lot's of women look at the hanging skin, and stretch marks on their belly as a beautiful testament to carrying children. I see it as a testament to the fact that I'll never wear a bikini again. I shake my head, groan and Gabriel pipes up, "a big bum mom". If my eyes could shoot daggers at him he would lie in a puddle of his own blood, but true to toddler form he hardly notices I'm alive and continues on his happy jaunt through my bathroom drawers, stopping occasionally to pull out a new treasure and wonder what it could possibly be used for.

I turn slow circles in my mirror and happily decide that I can live with my J. Lo booty...if only my thighs would stop shaking like a bowl of jello with every minor jolt they endure. Then I lean in close and inspect the face I barely recognize anymore. The bags under my eyes make me appear older than I am. I fiercely defend myself to my inner critic..."I am up three times a night breastfeeding, you know". Before I realize I have spoken out loud my son stares at my chest and states knowingly, "A big boobs. A Puck eat mom boobs". I smile at the boy who is now nonchalantly playing with my Canestan tablets with applicators. I raise an eyebrow, which I notice most definitely needs plucking, and push out my chest. No one would know that without my supportive bras my breasts look like deflated balloons. I sigh audibly and begin to wash my face. I look at the creams and makeups I have collecting before me and realize that I might want to think about anti aging serums. "It's never too early to start" I mumble while squinting at the tiny crows feet my eye creases are now sporting.

I finally head downstairs, and decide to tackle the day a little differently. Today I will end the night with a nice glass of wine. It will be my reward for keeping my children not only alive, but uninjured when their mouths tell me a truth I'm not quite ready to hear. I walk to the liquor store without children in tow and pick out a bottle of wine that I have noticed my own mother drinking. I bring it to the cashier and open my wallet. I'm ready to pull my ID from it's bindings when the clerk states " Twenty-one dollars and forty-four cents please". My swallow is quick and painfully obvious. I look furtively away while handing her my debit card and think that she must be wondering at this point what my age is...I look suspicious enough. When she still doesn't request my ID I'm confused but I do my best to cover the hurt expression on my face. When the 20 year old behind the counter calls me "Ma'am" I think I gasp aloud. She hands me my bottle of wine and I meekly leave the store and consider drinking the entire contents of my bottle before arriving home.

I decide against this course of action only because I suddenly believe that the officer wouldn't see me as a cute, young, tipsy girl, but as a drunk whose seen her fair share of disappointment in her long, depressing life...and he would probably refer to me as "ma'am" again which would only spurn me into becoming the alcoholic he assumes I am.

I get home and put the wine in the fridge and glance at the calender that cruelly mocks me. There's fifteen days until my 28th birthday. My audible sigh draws my husbands attention and he states, "what's up Sexy baby?". He grabs my ass and growls in my ear and I suddenly decide that I have the best husband in the world...Maybe tonight instead of drowning my sorrows over my lost youth, I'll raise a toast and celebrate the years I get to spend with this man who doesn't see the muffin top, stretch marks or deflated boobs...

Because he's an ass man afterall, and I kinda like my J. Lo booty.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

outstanding! I laughed and smiled and even had a tear in my eye for the lost girl in my own past. Very nicely done!