Who, until yesterday, was the woman who came to clean my apartment.
As if she didn’t already know we live like slobs, with dishes that stay in the sink just a little too long and piles of magazines and unopened mail that, like pasta, seem to grow the second you turn your head away. I swear Nate and I are going to be like those crazy old ladies you read about who die in their homes, and then four days later the landlord busts into the place to find the bodies decomposing in upholstered La-Z-Boys, surrounded by piles of catfood cans and ceiling-high stacks of rotting newspapers from the Truman administration.
But something was different than it was the day before. Because M was now taking care of Thalia (Sage has been coming to work with me, that much do I hate pumping). And I wanted to…what? Impress her? Impress her with our perfect little family and our brilliant organizational skills?
So not who we are. So not what happened.
I was nervous. Nervous around M, the woman who I’ve known for years, who adores Thalia, who Thalia adores.
Forget nervous; I was totally inept.
We were out of milk. We were out of diapers. I didn’t have a diaper bag packed. When I packed it, it included basically the one remaining diaper, a Sigg bottle and a burp cloth.
Yep, my two year-old daughter just might need a burp cloth.
M had to ask me about suntan lotion for the park. “Oh…” I said trying to appear like one of those cool prepared moms who actually remembers to keep UV protection handy at all times. “It’s in the, uh…the [mumblemumble]….don’t worry, I’ll find it. I’m sure it just uh…slipped out of the bag. Maybe.”
The healthiest snack I could find were cheddar goldfish with calcium, and a banana on its last legs. And my instructions for contacting the pediatrician in case of emergency was the very specific: “You know…they’re just down the block. Near the drugstore. Well, somewhere around there. If you need the address call me.”
Man, this not watching your kids all day thing is hard.