“I stink,” I announced the other day to anyone who would listen my kids.

My five year old looked at me funny and then yelled, “Take. A. Shower. Mommy!”

Hi, Bad Attitude. Who the hell does he think he is? He rolls around in the grass. He shoves his feet into the dirt to see how much brown he can cake under his toenails. His shoes smell like butt crack. And his face is practically always decorated in ketchup from his hot dog. Or fish sticks. Or scrambled eggs. Or tater tots.

He does, however, bathe every other day. Which, sadly, is more than I can say for myself.

I am a working mom. I am very busy. I have meetings AND playdates to attend. I don’t have 15 minutes a day to spare. (Don’t you dare judge me.)

Thus, personal hygiene has become the little red caboose of my priority train.

Yesterday, after my workout, I sauntered onto the soccer field to catch the tail end of his game. I glanced around at the other moms in their little shorts and little sandals, their hip diaper bags filled with snacks, their coiffed hair and lipstick. The way their sunglasses were so carefully perched on their heads. And how their shit was all pulled together.

At 9 a.m. on a Saturday morning.

I, on the other hand, was all decked out in sweaty mesh running shorts, an oversized t-shirt, extraordinarily hair legs, and sporting a ponytail that my filthy hair was railing against.

My five year old spied me immediately. He totally gave me the stink eye and cast some Santeria curses my way.

Ok. That’s a lie. He actually waved like a madman then fell on the ground.

But still. It was a reality check. There is an acceptable level of public grossness. I had crossed the line.

I went home and indulged in a long, hot shower. I shaved my legs. I washed AND conditioned my hair. I properly utilized my brand new, traffic light green, plastic loofah sponge. I even considered plucking some rogue eyebrow hairs.

So, I’m good for another coupla weeks now, right?

There was this one time, awhile ago, when a babysitter we’d hired explained to me that her mind was slippery. See, she was supposed to sit for our kids while my husband and I went to Fenway Park to watch a Red Sox game. I’d purchased the tickets months in advance. I was even looking forward to going. Somehow by simply living in the greater Boston area (and being married to a big fan), the excitement of baseball has rubbed off on me. I hate sports. But, one could pretty easily drag my ass to a Sox game.

Mainly because beer and hot dogs are awesome. And because we saw The Police reunion tour at Fenway. So now, when I’m there, I think of Sting. And his crazy 9 hour long tantric sex-capades.

How does he do it?

Anyway, the sitter forgot to show up. She just…well…forgot. Her phone was dead and she didn’t notice and whoopsie! “My mind has been so slippery lately!”

Yeah, she no longer babysits for us. But lately, I’ve been thinking about her. You see, MY MIND HAS BEEN SO DAMNED SLIPPERY LATELY!

I stare off into space.

I double and triple book appointments.

I forget appointments.

I forget to give my kids a beverage with their meals.

I lose things. Not so much physical things, more things that really can’t be lost. Like emails I keep meaning to respond to but don’t. Then, I can’t find them anymore.

I walk into walls, doors, my husband. (Not new behaviors. Just worth mentioning.)

I make myself a cup of tea and then pour a glass of water and find the tea an hour later, still filled to the top.

I forget to do my hair in the morning and arrive at work with toothpaste in it.

I often forget what I was going to say.

I wish I had a pensieve like Dumbledore. I’d dump out all the extraneous stuff in my brain to make room for the important stuff. Like my four year old’s upcoming apple picking fieldtrip and my cousin’s bridal shower next weekend. Instead, my head is filled with lines from The Breakfast Club and concern that my two year old will only use the potty when he’s naked. For the rest of his life.

I need a personal assistant.

Who I like.

But I’d totally settle for a vacation.

My kids have changed this summer. They look different. Older. For a split second, here and there, I see them at ten, fifteen, twenty-one. It’s making me nostalgic for a time not so far gone, but far enough gone that their baby pictures get me all teary.

My oldest is posed to start kindergarten next week. Kindergarten. How the hell did that happen? Soon he’ll be going to the movies with friends, dating, and moving away to a college town…
I’m freaking out here.

Their baby-ness is sliding away from me. Their super-soft hair, the pads of fat on the tops of their feet, the dimples in their elbows, it’s all disappearing. And in it’s place are two mini versions of stupid Justin Beiber.

My Beiber’s are way better looking than him though.

This has been a summer of independence for them. They are psyched to play alone together on the beach. They don’t need me or my husband to entertain them or to over-protect them. They’ve got each other. In fact, we are this close to firing our babysitters because these children are just the picture of maturity and responsibility. I mean, they put their own dishes in the sink for crissakes. They make mango popsicles. They produce life-size forts out of my dining room furniture.
They are completely autonomous. (Please disregard the cries of “Mommy, I need help wiping…”)

And yet, when the whiny, over-tired, fussing begins, they are babies again. We still count to three to get them to cut it out. We still threaten them with time outs. We still hold them close to us, secretly smelling their skin, in an effort to calm them. We still lie down with them and sing them lullabies.

“I’ll always be your baby, Mommy. Even when I’m a daddy. Even when I’m fourteen,” my five year old often divulges proudly. I just hope that when he’s a daddy, and when he’s fourteen, he remembers that that’s our deal.

Or else, he’s not gonna get any ice cream.

Today, my five year old son and I made a date for post-quiet time. He and I planned an adventure of Peter Pan-like proportions. We were going to go to the pool. Alone. Just us two.

My son is a fish. He was crazy excited. He talked the entire way there. “Mommy, during quiet time, I made beautiful drawings for you and I watched Daddy on the computer by standing up on my tip toes and looking out the window and I think my brother is still asleep also what are salamanders to newts and how come the salamanders came out after the rain when we were hiking? You have to be very careful not to step on the salamanders because they are so small and tiny and hide under big leaves and we are very big to them and could kill them with our feet, right?”

We made are way through the locker room (“Mommy, why do we have to take a shower before we get in the pool and why do we have to wear our flip flops in the shower I want to take my shoes off and go get wet in the pool come on, ok?”) and out to the pool area. He jumped right in. I took my time adjusting to the cooler-than-I’d-hoped-for-temperature of the water. We played. He swam. I took some pictures.

And then…he made a friend.

Fart Girl.

Fart Girl is eight. And she thinks it is high-larious to make farting noises with her mouth against her wet elbow crease. She can also burp on command.

My son chose to forgo our alone time together to play with Fart Girl.

And Fart Girl sucks.

The man who was evidently Fart Girl’s dad was sitting in the shade on his Blackberry while I made sure she didn’t murder my child with her pool noodle and/or bad breath. And then she had the audacity to make fun of my son’s name.

“How’d he know my name?” She asked me.

“What’s your name?” I answered.

“Morgan.”

“He said Mommy. Not Morgan. His name is Sydney.”

“Sydney?” Fart Girl giggled. “Sydney?! Like a girl?” She burst out laughing and burping. Simultaneously.

“Umm, no. Like a boy. It was a boy’s name first. But now, anyone can be called Sydney, Morgan.” Mature, I know. But who the hell is a Morgan to tell my Sydney he has a chick name? Didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest though. He was happy to play with Fart Girl.

As long as I was close by. Close enough to protect him from her splashy, crappy farts. But I can’t say he was disappointed when she left him to play with big boys that were turning the kiddie pool into “a whirlpool vacuous vortex.” Their words. Not mine.

We stayed behind. Alone. Just us two. And enjoyed the crap* out of the rest of our date.

*Totally couldn’t help myself. Please excuse my pun.

Getting two children ready to go in the morning is akin to herding cats. If I was the type of gal who could roll with the punches or see the humor in how my five year old has already developed selective hearing (yeah, I’ve totally turned into that “why do I need to ask you to put on your shoes 58 times?!” mom.) I’d be fine. But I’m not. Because I can’t.

Because High-Stress is my middle name. (It’s looks prettier in cursive.)

Even on these lazy, summer days when all I’m responsible for is getting my cavities filled and waiting for the repairman to show up to fix my God damned oven, I make sure that mornings are as High-Stress as possible.

I stay in bed too long.

I obsess about the amount of uneaten waffle left on my kids plates and then obsess about whether or not I should send them to school with a second breakfast.

I tell them to go play so I can make their lunches.

I get pissed at them for playing and messing up my house.

I insist on arguing about the potty with my three year old.

I force them to get dressed. Against their will.

I only allow them to bring one stuffy to school each. (School policy. Not my fault.)

I refuse to give them watermelon to eat after shoes are on and we’re practically out the door. (On this, I will not back down. On the potty, I might.)

I will only go back into the house once everyone is buckled in the car if it’s a dire emergency. Like if my five year old decides to throw a spontaneous tantrum because he left his little gray stuffed doggie on the sofa, a little gray stuffed doggie that he’d completely forgotten about until I told him to go play so I could make lunches fifteen minutes before.

I lecture them all the way to school about how we cannot keep have mornings like this.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

I am the hamster on the wheel.

Now I must go obsess about the fact that I double-booked my cavity-filling and the oven guy and hope that when he said he’d be here between 8 and 12 this morning, he really meant between 10:45 and 12.

Toodles!

Around these parts, we are suckered into paying for daycare year round. That’s right. Even though I’m off for July and August, we pay for 12 months of daycare.
Wait.

Let that sink in.

If we don’t pay, we “lose our spot.” And as I’m still waiting to hear if they’ll take my younger kid an additional day a week come September so I can work more, I’m a captive audience. I’m not risking our precious “spots.”

So, the question is: do I send them to daycare the three days a week I’m paying for, even though I’m not working, to, you know, spend time with them? Or, do I take full advantage of my childcare and use the time to go shopping organize closets, get rid of too small clothes and clean out our God forsaken wet, cat piss marked basement?

Hmmm?

This week daycare is closed. And if daycare is closed, Mommy Day Camp is open. I’ve been with these children 24/7 since last Friday. We’ve been to the zoo, the Berkshire Mountains, mini-golfing, water sliding, the farm/splash park (no, I did not make up that combo of fun…)

But today?

Today blows. Today, we went food shopping. Blows. We returned library books. Blows. We went to the post office. Blows. We went to the gym. Rocks for me, blows for them. We watched a guy deliver our new hot water heater. We watched the plumber install the new water heater. We had a stupid lunch. Blows blows blows.

Then, we ALL went to get my chipped tooth fixed and both of my little angels threw tantrums. Consecutively. At my feet. While I was in the dentist’s chair.

I can’t imagine why that happened. I mean today has been so awesome otherwise…oh, wait, maybe it was because it’s a hundred damned degrees outside and we went to the dentist because it’s air conditioned! I know. A brilliant Mommy Day Camp move, right?

Whoever their “real” mom is is gonna be P.Oed when she finds out the honeymoon is over and Mommy Day Camp is just code for Shitty Errands Camp.

That must be why registration is so low.