Hot Mess.

hotmess

I wonder if when people see me they think “Uh-oh here comes that Hot Mess.” Seriously. I totally have issues getting out the door and even more so when I am out the door. I envy those women that are so incredibly put together. I think “Self –  what the fuck are you doing that you cannot get it together?”  I wonder if there is some “mighty momma” meeting I missed out on or a guidebook that they never handed out when I left the hospital with my first born?

I once had a mom tell me her 3 year old was reading at a 5 year old level while at the same exact moment one of my three year-olds licked left over peanut butter off the table >> I avoided eye contact with her after she made eye contact with him.

Hot Mess.

The other day my three year old daughter and I had a come to Jesus in the bathroom stall of the library during an argument about why she her tummy hurt and that she couldn’t hold her poop in that I’m pretty sure the entire lower level overheard and witnessed.

Hot Mess.

The Monday, during my yoga class God conveniently placed me next to a twenty something blonde in matching athletic garb from head to toe as I wore a “Bieber Fever ” tee with my unwashed hair slicked to my head from leftover dry shampoo and the bottoms of my feet slightly gray from the lack of shoes I wore outside that morning as I yelled at my kids to stop throwing tennis balls against the side of the house.

Hot Mess.

Our eldest dog, though he is neutered, humps every visitor we have, from our babysitter to our Pastor to our cleaning people. A 7 lb little humping white fur ball, yep, he belongs to us. Our other dog can smell the carcass of a dead animal from 3 miles away and brings it back across the neighborhood to our front yard EACH and EVERY time with a limb of some sort hanging out of his mouth as cars drive by staring in wonder.

Hot Mess.

During the warm weather last week my savage children played outside as I made dinner. As I peeked through the window to check on them, my kids had decided to create a small mudd pool next to our driveway and now had our 80 year-old neighbor in a conversation about the pool as they smeared dark brown sludge across their faces while asking her if she would like some as they held up sticks with the goop hanging in gobs off the ends.

Hot Mess.

My daughter wears only pink and refuses to wear her hair up no matter the bed head catastrophe it is. My youngest son wears only the same two outfits day after day. My eldest thinks most adults are below his intelligence and speaks to them as if he were Einstein.

Hot Mess.

Today at preschool drop-off most moms looked as if they rolled out of a j. crew ad while I looked like I rolled out of a TMZ ad while my children portrayed all traits that Dr.Oz warns against.

Hot Mess. And this is only a fraction of a recap of this week … of the PG rated stuff.

I try to analyze at what point did I make the switch from sane to lunatic mom/wife. I often find myself rambling to other customers in line about TMI subjects or running through a parking lot after my children as I scream “PUT YOUR HAND ON THE VAN! YOU’RE GOING TO GET HIT BY A CAR!!” or looking around the gym at all the cute yoga pants and sporty tanks while catching my own reflection in the mirror of possibly a homeless person that they let into the gym for a free membership day. Sane or lunatic? Hot mess or lucky lady?

I woke up and there was a rainbow sticker on the toilet seat this morning. Oh the irony. I’m not sure what God wanted me to know as I put my ass on a rainbow. Was it a metaphor to let me know that my ass was on a rainbow with the life I am leading? Perhaps. When I bare it all, removing all the razzle dazzle, To Do lists and extra stuff (just like the naked cheeks of a butt) I am very lucky (hence the rainbow) with all that I have.

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