A Tale of Two Mommies

…because more seems excessive…

Tag Archives: storytime

Lazy Weekend Mornings…

My three-year-old little man didn’t wake especially early, but the rest of the house was still asleep. I’d been up for an hour enjoying the easy quiet of the house…wasting time as Mommies do when no one is around. It was too early for me to be roaming the house, but the lure of no one else around was too strong, and that’s why caffeine exists.

Eventually, my son treks downstairs, eating his banana in front of the sofa where I continue to lay. Upon finishing the prelude to his breakfast, he walks to the bookcase housing almost the entirety of our children’s reading collection, and chooses his latest passionate obsession.

Image result for ping the duck book

Mr. Man climbs into my arms, snuggling close. My son has the tale mostly memorized…at least the first few pages, so he begins until it is my turn to take over. In a relatively hushed utterance I read each page, my son rapt. He periodically stops me to inquire about the illustrations…the reflection in the water…the rings around the fishing birds’ necks…asking if Ping looks happy. Small inquires like that are typical to my curious little boy. My son continued to burrow into the snuggle, telling his love for me during breaks between the repetitive story renditions.

Little Man and I agree to change his diaper after I read one of his favorite pigeon books.

Image result for pigeon finds a hot dog

But, just as the story concluded and Mr. Man sought the solitary image of the eaten hot dog among the tantalizing complete ones on the back cover, he heard Daddy stirring upstairs. The spell was broken. My son rushed to meet his hero. Simultaneously, Warrior Queen announced her awakened state with cries to join the morning rumble. I guess the diaper will wait…

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times…Due Reverence to Caffeine and Stockings…

It was one of those silly, stupid mornings when annoying things happen.  It’s a warm December.  I’m pregnant and tired of wearing jeans, and since these unseasonably balmy days are nothing more than leading us all into a false sense of security for the remaining winter months (and likely well into spring), I’m taking advantage and wearing dresses as long as possible.  That said, as a considerate person, I opt to wear stockings…No one should need to avert their gaze from the pasty legs of a woman who is also blessed with a healthy coating of spider veins.

I don’t know what happened, but all of the pairs of nylons I pulled had problems that I only noticed after completing my version of the dancing sausage.  I must have disregarded three pairs after managing to wrangle them in place.  The last pair wasn’t perfect, but good enough to continue with the dressing process.

Little Man eats, I hose him off over the sink, and prepare us for our departure.  In the bathroom I notice I have banana slime all over the front of my solid black dress, but I refuse to change.  This dress shows off my belly as one due to pregnancy while allowing the rest of my physique to look reminiscent of one of those lovely air brushed maternity models…sans stem issues…

I manage to scrape enough feeding residue from my ensemble, and we leave for storytime at one of the surrounding public libraries.  Little Man enjoys himself immensely.  It’s a good program.  One book reading is surrounded by various songs and lap bounces for thirty-minutes…and it’s free.  But, the merriment was not shared by all parties in attendance.  If there was any doubt that my panty hose were fulfilling their final obligation in this life, Little Man’s Velcro shoe ties cinched the deal.  Their final moments were not looking good…there would be no graceful fade into glory.

When the program ended, Mr. Man was ready to leave, which was good because I was hoping to meet a friend at a local coffee shop for a snack…and vat of iced tea…Fighting the emergence of a cold combined with pregnancy left me exhausted for four straight days.  I’m finally feeling good, but my favorite cold beverage from this specific establishment would go a long way in brightening my general disposition.

Sitting at our local haunt, my son usually does well.  He eats slowly, content to just sit for a time; not today, however.  This, naturally, would be the day when he feels the urge to celebrate the coming of the New Year with tidbits of edible confetti strewn around him like the entrance of one of the more important Egyptian Pharaohs I hear about on PBS, but he was smiling the entire time, so clearly I would be down with it…  I inhaled the remaining bits of my sandwich; no worries, I’m used to intense heartburn at this point…When it’s absent from my meals I feel a certain longing like nostalgia for an old friend…

On a positive note, maybe the Warrior Queen will be born with a full head of hair like my son…I can hardly wait to gaze lovingly on the male patterned baldness she will exhibit at three months.  But, that is some time yet, so for the time being I relish complaining about my copious indigestion and deep pliés I have to do in order to organize some semblance of order to my son’s celebratory rain of fresh fruit cup and toast dusting.

Knowing no other conversation will be possible, I wipe down Mr. Man, and set him down to wreak havoc on the cafe’s open area that houses a fine assortment of drink bottles and cans.  Unfortunately, I forgot to bring my untouched extra large iced tea with me as I supervised my son’s potential destruction of property.  Initially, he was just engaging in his typical efforts to maintain their inventory, but decided to suckle the cap of a stray Polar sparkling grapefruit seltzer resting apart from its packaged peers…So, I guess I’ll be buying that…

While I am purchasing said beverage, my son is losing his patience and wants to leave.  I manage to gather three drinks and him in my arms, carrying Little Man awkwardly to my car.  Everything flows smoothly enough from there.  My son is buckled in.  I’m in the process of arranging three drinks for transport home before closing the back seat door.  Then in a sudden, tragic moment, my iced tea crashes to the ground in a glorious splatter that is all over my shoes and sprinkles the stockings that are looking increasingly abused every passing minute in a shredded massacre.  My son just looked at me with an air of pity that is usually reserved for moments before flushing a dead goldfish.  Maybe it’s because he was just a short time away from an explosive diaper and this was a preemptive peace offering, or maybe he knew that mourning was the appropriate reaction for the beverage I was perseverating on all morning.

 

%d bloggers like this: