Keeping It Real

For a long list of sundry reasons, (most of which came in the form of messes made by Henry: a heap of unrolled toilet paper, a skiff of laundry soap granules over the utility room floor, a deluge of water around the kitchen sink, smooshed cereal crumbs in the crinkles of the sofa cover, the contents of an entire box of wipes emptied onto the living room floor...you know, typical toddler messes, made all day long, while the MotherMaid was occupied with the clean-up of said messes.)

So, as I was saying...for all of those reasons and a few others that I can blame on nothing other than my gender, I wanted to run away last night, to look for my Sparkle Lost. And I did. But the man of our house didn't get home 'til eight (which added to my exasperation with life,) and by the time we ate dinner and I could escape, it was after nine. Nine nineteen, according to my few-minutes-fast watch. The library was closed. Bummer. A slithery disappearance into the mazey periodicals section sounded mouthwateringly delicious.

On to Plan B: Borders would suffice, I thought. Hmmmm...if I only knew where one was. Nope!

Proceed to Plan C: Barnes and Noble...same problem.

So I drove.

And drove.

Around in circles. Steering aimlessly through the straight, flat, fast-food and pharmacy-lined streets of suburbia. I forgot I had a speedometer. I just drove, in a PoorMeIHateMyHARDLife-induced reverie. Signals blurred into fuzzy blobs that I heeded more like Christmas decorations than Legally Enforced Traffic Controls. I was equally, (dangerously,) unaware of pedestrians and wandering pets. Lucky for me (and the bipedal population,) my sort-of-late-night search for sparkle came to an end without unfortunate incident.

I ended up at Kroger's. (Kroger's is pronounced with a hard "g." Not Roger with a "K" . I botched it and hope to spare you that humiliation.) Kroger's!, The Goliath of Grocers here in this Southern-ish region of the country, is where I ended up. I ran away to the grocery store and bought yogurt and bananas, 'cause we were out, and I was out...and you know, it made sense. It was practical. But isn't the whole point of running away, to do something dramatic and impractical? I mean, I think I should have at least bought some press-on nails and a Starz Magazine. Don't you? Needless to say, the outing didn't do much to quench the IGottaRun--NOW! sensation that amasses after several stress and mess-filled, days of Stay-at-Home-Mom-dom.

I woke up under dark clouds again today.

But something happened around 6:30 this evening; a change of spirits that felt as instantaneous, (if you'll pardon a trite cliche,) as the flip of a switch. I don't know what it was that lifted the doldrums; there's a long list of sundry reasons to which I could attribute the return of cheer. Part of me thinks the Serotonin Dam sprung a leak, and released some "Happy Chemicals" into my system. That's what it felt like. Or maybe it was the sound of the garage door going up that said, "Clock out, hon'. Your shift is over." Or perhaps the good, hard cry I had on the phone with my mom, in which she absorbed and affirmed my MotherhoodIsSoHard sobs, and suggested I get some child-proof doorknob covers, (to reduce the mischief making possibilities.) It is equally possible, though it may not seem logical, that it was the short, but smile-sprinkled I/M chat I was lucky enough to sneak in with Joanie, in which we came to the very useful conclusion that: Yes. It is awkward and unproductive to attempt conversation with a man if he is attempting conversation with your chest. Or maybe this can all be blamed on something as tiny and genetic as that additional X chromosome that I have, which seems to pull an awful lot of weight for such a microscopic bit of bio-matter.

I don't know.

What I do know is that there aren't sparkly enough words to tell you how happy I feel for the return of my sparkle--it helps me be a better mom, and a boy this cute deserves a happy mom.