Singin’ for my SupperMarch 4, 2010 at 11:12 pm | Posted in Family, Giggles, Serial Commas | 10 Comments
Today was a big day for me. I had a lunch. A business lunch.
I put on make-up. Used mousse. Pulled out my Nine West boots. I ransacked my closet, tried every clothing combination possible. (Except for the pink button-down. Because it didn’t go with my boots.)
Meanwhile, down the hall, Giggles decided it would be a good time to remove all the books from the shelf and chuck them on the floor. And remove his pants. And feed carpet fuzz to the dogs.
All Dressed Up and No One to Diaper
Thus, we were a little frazzled when we left the house. But we were both wearing our pants. The books had been returned to their shelf, even if gallons of snot had been dispensed in the ensuing tantrum timeout. And we were only five minutes behind schedule (I think it was boot karma).
I dropped him off at a playmate’s house and slipped out quietly as he made a beeline for the furry purple Dora chair. Since Lollipop was at school, I really, truly, legitimately, had two hours to myself. For my business lunch. Boy, did I feel like a grown-up.
I drove downtown, going over the key points I wanted to make. I practiced answers for questions I thought might be asked. And I marveled at how outrageously tiny my purse looked on the passenger seat. Definitely no diapers in there.
I’ll Have the PB&J Please
I arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early, reapplied my lipstick (lipstick!), adjusted my earrings (earrings!), took out my stylish pen (stylish pen!). Inside, there were handshakes. Notes taken. Corporate credit cards used. And when I came back to the table after refilling my drink? No one had thrown their spoon/sippy/burrito on the floor. Need I say more?
I left with the promise of a few new projects and a renewed professional partnership. I left feeling like a grown-up. A professional. A working woman. I left carrying a purse and wearing boots, for Pete’s sake.
I drove to pick up Giggles, replaying some of the lunch conversation in my head. A catchy tune came on, and I turned it up. Hummed along, then sang out loud. I drafted follow-up e-mails in my head, shaking my moussed hair to the music from the speakers.
The song ended, but the tune kept bouncing in my brain. I kept on humming it. All around the cobbler’s bench … Singing it. The monkey chased the weasel … Tapping my hands on the steering wheel. That’s the way the money goes … Tapping my Nine Wests. Pop! goes the weasel.
This professional woman fresh from her business lunch? Was bopping along to a nursery rhyme. And totally digging it.
I laughed. A little Dr. Pepper came out my nose.
And I realized: It had been fun to play career woman, a role I once knew so well, for a few hours. But I am not that woman anymore.
Part of me is. The part that holds onto her Nine West boots, waiting for the once-a-year chance to wear them. The part that calls herself a “freelancer” and enjoys debating the merits of the serial comma. The part that collects post-its and red pens. Part of me always will be.
But all of me is a mother. Who negotiates timeouts, wipes snot, and re-clothes pint-sized strippers. Who peels stickers off the dogs, glue-guns princess dresses back together, keeps a soccer ball in her pantry. Who works long hours and weekends, puts in overtime, gets paid in finger paintings and graham cracker crumbs.
That’s the way the money goes. And that works for me. Because I think my Nine Wests are gonna last a while.