At camp carpool pick up the other day, a counselor stopped to talk to me about Little E.
UH-OH. A short list of hot topics popped into my brain.
1) INCESSANT THUMB SUCKING (STILL)
2) COMPLETE DISREGARD FOR USING A TOILET ON A REGULAR BASIS (STILL)
3) LAZINESS THAT HASN'T BEEN SEEN ON SUCH A LARGE SCALE SINCE GARFIELD
But it was none of these. She surprised me with a new one.
LITTLE E WAS VERY UPSET TODAY WHEN WE PLAYED A GAME AND HE GOT MUD ON HIS SHIRT AND ARMS.
My external dialogue was all very understanding and sympathetic. I turned around in the car to tell Little E that it was fine if he messed up his camp clothes as they were just that, camp clothes, and that any dirt on his arms could be washed off with a good bubble bath. I nodded knowingly at the teenager counselor. Yeah, I got this.
My internal dialogue was much different.
DAMN STRAIGHT! I'M SO TIRED OF DOING LAUNDRY. OF BUYING SHIRTS THAT GET WORN ONCE AND ARE STAINED WITH SOME MYSTERIOUS FOOD/FLUID/GOO THAT NEVER COMES OUT AND I HAVE TO THROW THEM OUT. (the one and dones, as I call them).
Even though I am mostly a SAHM, I'm quick to point out that if you rearrange those letters, you get SHAM, which basically summarizes my cooking and laundress skills.
I can hard boil the sh*t out of some eggs and divide my laundry into lights, darks, and towels, but that is where the domesticated goddess magic ends.
So, I applaud you, Little E, for taking a stand for your mother against mud and popsicles and whatever else you get on your witty old navy t-shirt.
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