... a scented candle is shoved in my face.
"Oh. Thanks for the candle, Spawn!"
"Whore."
"No, no. Candle."
"Whore."
"Caaan-dle."
"Whooooore."
"It's a candle. Say 'candle'"
"...Yo-yo."
Yo-yo? Can that be considered progress? I suppose we've graduated from a single syllable insult to a two syllable object. I'll accept just about anything at this point. Today the woman at the coffee shop did a double take when Spawnling pointed out the "whores" on the donut shelves.
In other news I purchased something - *drumroll* - for myself! Yes, for myself. All for me and nobody else. This is no small feat when the last decade of my life has been in service of other people. I cook, clean, change, teach, drive, hug, wipe, lecture, discipline, reward and support three boys, batteries not included. I tend to shop for them, not for me. I get their hair cut, not mine. They get new shoes and I don't. They get new jackets while mine falls apart a little bit more ever year. Heck, they even have nicer nails than I do.
Suffice to say that getting something just for me is a rarity when it shouldn't be. I should be putting myself first as all the magazines and parenting experts will tell you. A happy mom makes for happy, unabandoned children. It's simple enough that I should be going in for regular hair appointments and the occasional new footwear purchase. However, I'm almost embarrassed to admit that I haven't had a haircut since September of last year and haven't bought a new pair of shoes since last summer (and only then because I was in a wedding party).
But why, Maven? Why would you neglect yourself so?
Guilt, my flock. It's the guilt that drives me. Like most families, we have a limited amount of money for the 'extras' (and if you're not one of those people with a limit on extras, you're either rich or in debt up to your eyeballs. If you're in debt you can stay. If you're rich I don't like you and you can leave. Or give me money. Preferably the money. Thank you.) Anyway, it makes me happier seeing my gremlins in new shoes (which are ruined in the mud in two minutes) than seeing me in new shoes (ruined in 10 minutes, after chasing Spawnling through a puddle).
It's not practical to buy myself new things. I don't have a job where I'm expected to look stylish or even, well, good. I have a job where my potentially new clothing items are quickly stained with condiments, medicine and/or enormous amounts of snot.
But this thing I bought touches on the one problem I have that was supposed to go away after I became a woman and had to deal with ketchup and boogers: acne. Yes, I have a pimple issue. Blame my PCOS, that's what I do. No thirty-one-year-old woman should have to deal with breakouts all over her face. We've paid our dues to womanhood through copious amounts of bleeding, birthing and breastfeeding. By now I should be getting ready to tell Intrepid that the acne about to crop up on his perfect complexion will go away, get better, completely disappear by the time he reaches adulthood. But no. Instead I have Spawnling picking at my whiteheads saying 'Poke! Poke!' and giggling. Joy.
After the 537,342th time I saw the commercial for the ever-popular acne system hocked by the blond ex-reality star, ex-singer, I decided to try it out. Riddled with guilt, I committed to paying the exorbitant price and goop up my face twice a day in the hopes of gaining some vanity points. It's been about five days so I can't say how this will affect my hotness rating. But at least I have one little splurge just for me.
I told Geekster that the acne system is cheaper than a fourth child, which is my crazy logic that only he could understand. Three children and a clear face is actually more appealing right now than four children and zits. My ego knows no bounds.
"Oh. Thanks for the candle, Spawn!"
"Whore."
"No, no. Candle."
"Whore."
"Caaan-dle."
"Whooooore."
"It's a candle. Say 'candle'"
"...Yo-yo."
Yo-yo? Can that be considered progress? I suppose we've graduated from a single syllable insult to a two syllable object. I'll accept just about anything at this point. Today the woman at the coffee shop did a double take when Spawnling pointed out the "whores" on the donut shelves.
In other news I purchased something - *drumroll* - for myself! Yes, for myself. All for me and nobody else. This is no small feat when the last decade of my life has been in service of other people. I cook, clean, change, teach, drive, hug, wipe, lecture, discipline, reward and support three boys, batteries not included. I tend to shop for them, not for me. I get their hair cut, not mine. They get new shoes and I don't. They get new jackets while mine falls apart a little bit more ever year. Heck, they even have nicer nails than I do.
Suffice to say that getting something just for me is a rarity when it shouldn't be. I should be putting myself first as all the magazines and parenting experts will tell you. A happy mom makes for happy, unabandoned children. It's simple enough that I should be going in for regular hair appointments and the occasional new footwear purchase. However, I'm almost embarrassed to admit that I haven't had a haircut since September of last year and haven't bought a new pair of shoes since last summer (and only then because I was in a wedding party).
But why, Maven? Why would you neglect yourself so?
Guilt, my flock. It's the guilt that drives me. Like most families, we have a limited amount of money for the 'extras' (and if you're not one of those people with a limit on extras, you're either rich or in debt up to your eyeballs. If you're in debt you can stay. If you're rich I don't like you and you can leave. Or give me money. Preferably the money. Thank you.) Anyway, it makes me happier seeing my gremlins in new shoes (which are ruined in the mud in two minutes) than seeing me in new shoes (ruined in 10 minutes, after chasing Spawnling through a puddle).
It's not practical to buy myself new things. I don't have a job where I'm expected to look stylish or even, well, good. I have a job where my potentially new clothing items are quickly stained with condiments, medicine and/or enormous amounts of snot.
But this thing I bought touches on the one problem I have that was supposed to go away after I became a woman and had to deal with ketchup and boogers: acne. Yes, I have a pimple issue. Blame my PCOS, that's what I do. No thirty-one-year-old woman should have to deal with breakouts all over her face. We've paid our dues to womanhood through copious amounts of bleeding, birthing and breastfeeding. By now I should be getting ready to tell Intrepid that the acne about to crop up on his perfect complexion will go away, get better, completely disappear by the time he reaches adulthood. But no. Instead I have Spawnling picking at my whiteheads saying 'Poke! Poke!' and giggling. Joy.
After the 537,342th time I saw the commercial for the ever-popular acne system hocked by the blond ex-reality star, ex-singer, I decided to try it out. Riddled with guilt, I committed to paying the exorbitant price and goop up my face twice a day in the hopes of gaining some vanity points. It's been about five days so I can't say how this will affect my hotness rating. But at least I have one little splurge just for me.
I told Geekster that the acne system is cheaper than a fourth child, which is my crazy logic that only he could understand. Three children and a clear face is actually more appealing right now than four children and zits. My ego knows no bounds.