I was left home alone for approximately 7.5 hours today. This is a rare occurrence in the life of this ordinary Hausfrau because I own so many children, it’s very difficult to convince anyone (even the man who procreated them with me) to brave leaving home with all of them in tow.
But the man I love is a Rockstar like Bret Michaels. He sings, he dances, he draws on a six pack and wrestles toddlers into complete submission. Just kidding. He’s really nothing like Bret Michaels, but he dressed up like him once. This is completely irrelevant to my story.
Gosh.
Anyway. He took the children away to go swimming at Grandma and Papa’s house so I would not injure them or myself and left me to my own devices for a large chunk of time. This usually only happens when I’m sick or when I’m frighteningly close to strangling a minor with my bare hands.
Today I was both. I was dying slowly due to complications relating to basically being the Cryptkeeper, but still somehow menstruating as well as being just one “Mommy!” away totally annihilating an entire family with my “Carrie Brain”. The family I speak of is the one which I created myself, incidentally.
When young moms are left alone, they devise detailed and brilliant intentions such as cleaning out the school closet, baking bread for the week, washing all the bedsheets and curtains, scrubbing the grout and wiping the faces of cabinets which have poop smeared on them. When old moms get left alone, the agenda is totally different.
What the women of advanced maternal age do:
Things like, sit on the couch in their underwear, legs dangling limply while listlessly eating a Hershey bar. Watch the Amazon screen saver of beautiful and foreign photography for like 35 minutes. Make a single serve mug cupcake. Take a 1.3 hour bath. Pluck eyebrows. Inspect nasal cavity for a good 10-15 minutes. Google “crow’s feet”. Wonder why Rachel Hollis is so famous. Thumb through the Bible. Wonder how King Herod got to be king. Buy an entire 7 year old’s fall wardrobe on Amazon. Make a single serve chocolate pudding that she never imagined could be so delicious. Eat beef jerky. Think about putting on a glove and getting that little pumice stone stick thing and chipping that weird stain off the bottom of the hole in the toilet where the poo goes and then change her mind and go get in bed and lay on a heating pad instead. Watch a documentary on fasting. Eat more beef jerky because people talking about not eating for 11 days is terrifying. Go scrub all the dishes she used to make single serving desserts and maniacally hide all the evidence of her period-induced indiscretions. Listen to 90s gangsta rap at full death decibels followed by Clair de Lune performed by Debussy. Think about Twilight and Stephenie Meyer and Bella and Edward and how they looked so much better by the last two movies. Text the family and tell them how much she misses them (which she does) but really she’s just wondering how much longer she has to lie in bed and troll Facebook till they get home. Write a story implicating herself in all these crimes and post it on social media.
…with a photo of her husband dressed like Bret Michaels.
Genius.
