“It’s like…a jelly brick…in my diaper” and other Little G-isms

The other day I was folding laundry (it must be said that laundry is my least favorite part of SAHMing…and it shows) on the living room floor. Dinner was cooking in the oven, and I was reviewing what had been and still required completion on my to-do list. Big G was telling me about some program he was writing that I’d long since been unable to understand, and SS was due to arrive within the hour…when suddenly it hit me. It was so much that it hit me, as it was a dawning on me. The light in the room or in my brain may have gotten brighter or something, but it was like I was hyper aware of the fact that I’m a frigging adult!!!

I felt like I’d crashed a party where all the other grown-ups were looking at my shoes and asking each other, “who the hell let her in here?” and some impeccably, dressed woman in perfectly coiffed victory rolls, pearls and a starched white apron would lean in and say, “they’ll let anyone in nowadays,” while laughing demurely and pouring everyone a martini.

Seriously, I don’t belong here. First of all, I hate pearls. They’re called tears of the sea, and I don’t want to wear someone’s tears, even if it is the sea and we don’t spend much time together. Second, I’ve been working on victory rolls (click if you don’t know what they are…it’s okay, I won’t judge), but the truth is most of the day my hair is pulled into a way too large bun with curls escaping all over the place. I’m in denial about wearing glasses. I got eye surgery in 2007 and once I was pregnant with Little G my eyes started going south again. I have glasses, and I wear them in the house…all day. They’re black and pink. Not sophisticated at all. And what’s with being able to keep an apron clean? IF I wear an apron it’s usually stained with whatever I was trying to protect my clothes from. It’s also not too hard to get flour on my forehead when I use it. And martinis? I hate them. In fact I’ve never developed a taste for alcohol that isn’t masked with some kind of juice or sweetener. I like amaretto sours and gin and tonics, both of which skip me over adulthood and send me to the old folks home.

I’ve talked to my Dad about this phenomenon, and he tells me that it’s not just me. In my head, I’m 23…okay, 22, and it’s not like the chronology of my age bothers me, it just spooks me. I get this, “whoa…when did I get here” kind of tripped out moment. My Dad will tell me imagine how you’re going to feel when Little G turns 30. To which I reply, “nope…I’m not sure how I’m going to feel when she turns 3.” Which brings up the whole Little G issue. Did you know that they letme have a baby?!? It’s amazing. They let anyone do it. Plus, my whole job is to take care of her. Which is pretty awesome, because I can’t think of a job where, “goochie coochie boogie boo” is part of the acceptable vernacular, and flannel pajamas and hoodies are the acceptable uniform.

So just as I started to wonder if I was starting down the road to a midlife crisis this is what walked by, a box of Huggies with legs.

Then when she peeked her head out of the box she said, “Mom…it’s like…a jel-ly brick…in my diaper”.

Yes Little G…that’s exactly what it’s like. And upon changing her diaper, she said, “Oh sweetheart, you’re so beautiful my darling” and that’s when I realized…eff those grown-ups and their pearl martinis. I’m perfectly happy being this 30 year-old, semi-adult bizzaromom so long as I get to be Little G’s sweetheart darling.

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