I have been the mother of nine this week. My sister, Arianne, went with her husband on a 10-year-anniversary trip to Mexico and stopped in Austin to drop her kids off on the way. So I have been raising another 5 and 6 year-old. Some of whom are a little more . . . opinionated and belligerant than I am used to. I also have an 8 month-old baby. She is sweet as sugar but ohmygosh I forgot babies are so constant. And needy. And poopy. I am getting nothing done. Plus, baby Pippa has been sleeping in my closet (I have a very large closet) which means if I forget to get my clothes out the night before I must wait to get changed until she gets up. Not that it matters because I have left the house exactly twice since they got here last Friday. And neither time was for a romantic Valentine’s getaway. (Valentine’s was a non-event this year.)
I ventured out to the store-that-shall-not-be-named yesterday because I needed Fels Naptha soap and Huggies and that’s the only store that sells both. I had on a sloppy sweatshirt and crocs. And no makeup and a two day old ponytail. It was like I’d taken a time machine back to the days when I had two babies and simply couldn’t get my act together. But unlike 1997, I didn’t feel bad or apologetic about my appearance. Because I’m living the nine kids reality right now and if that’s not an excuse to let yourself go, I don’t know what is.
My sister gets home some time today. I forgot to ask her when. As I was giving her daughter, Daphne, yet another scolding yesterday (“Daphne, I told that you’d get a time out if you slammed the door!” “But I was slamming the closet door. You said I’d get a time out if I slammed the bedroom door.”), she sobbed, “I wish my mom were here!”
Me too, Daphne. Probably more that you.