She reared her ugly head today. When I say ugly, I mean bushy, bed-head hair, left over mascara and still-in-her-pj’s kind of ugly. The “she” is me, Grumpy Mom. Grumpy is actually too nice of a term but when I was orginally going to post this on momwithapen.com, I thought I should PG it up a bit.
I’ll just call her by her true name, Bitchy Mom. I hate Bitchy Mom. Why can’t I just stay Fun Mom all the time? The one that is dancing with her four year old and delighting at her imaginative moves. No, instead Bitchy Mom does what she always does, drops in unannounced sending everyone, cats included, scurrying for cover. Maybe there is a way to pull in the welcome mat really quick….if you find it, let me know.
This time Bitchy Mom popped in after a particularly maddening argument with the four year old over the drying methods of a foamy mattress topper. Yes, you did read that correctly. She (4 yr old drying expert extraordinaire) did not approve of my method of draping it over a couple of chairs as opposed to it lying in a heap on some towels. She proclaimed, “This is not a good idea.”
That statement alone was not enough to invite Bitchy Mom. It was the repeated proclamations and requests to put it back punctuated by the falling on the floor, mom-is-so-cruel, tantrum that was finally thrown down like a pair of gloves in a hockey match. “Put it baaaack! Not a goood ideee-aaa!”
You know what is not a good idea, kid? Questioning my experience on such matters. Especially when I’m the one who keeps you in apple slices and Goldfish crackers.
Yep, Bitchy Mom has arrived. She is snippy, snappy and snarly. Although, she looks vaguely familiar somehow I picture her looking rather comfortable with a cigarette dangling from her lips and a bottle of vodka in one hand. Why I have assigned Bitchy Mom a look that resembles a cross between my late Grandma, Cruella Deville and Madame Medusa, is beyond me but that’s probably another blog in itself.
Usually Bitchy Mom’s stay is short lived. Her presence sends even me into cringe mode. I hear that voice, you know the one..sharp pitched, strained, nails on chalkboard voice….reminds you of something…..someone……*gasp!*…..your own mother. I send the harpy (my alter ego, not my mom) packing after a bout of deep breathing and pummeling myself with guilt. Apologies make their rounds. Appointments made to erase the furrow that just got deeper in my forehead. All is well in the world again.
Fast forward to the next morning. I peek out onto the balcony to greet the sun and a new day and there it is….. a hole. The foamy mattress topper now has a hole in it from the back of one of the chairs. *sigh*
My know-it-all-mini-me little stinker was right. It wasn’t a good idea.