Sleeping has become a thing that doesn’t interest me. That’s what I keep telling myself.
It’s pretty much the same mantra I repeated while watching the royal wedding except I replaced “sleep” with “Prince William” and instead of saying it quietly in my bed at night, I yelled it down my street in a tear filled rage wearing the wedding gown I had made for myself in sixth grade while tearing at the sky with his royal highness’s dog eared poster that he signed. And by “he” I mean my mother.
The thing is, I have a child, and apparently children are pretty evil. You are the reason I was previously unaware of this, and by “you” I mean my mother.
Remember that time you decided to have one kid who was all things perfect and routinely entertained you by saying things like “Why are you obsessed with culottes?” and “Are you sure orange is your color?”
Well, guess freaking what. Apparently not all children are helpful fashion critics because yesterday I dropped my daughter off at school and she didn’t even have the decency to tell me my pants had a hole in the crotch. And that I had forgotten to put on pants.
Do you know how easy you had it? Do you?? I’m over here dealing with Shirley McScreams a lot because I forgot to coat dinner in chocolate again while you could have made a side of string freaking beans and I would have eaten it. As the side to my prime rib.
How was I to know children are terrors that think sleep is the archenemy of the human race? There I was at twenty-four, reliving all the gorgeous times I allowed you to be seen in public with me, thinking how wonderful it would be to spend precious moments like that with my child when little did I know I was harboring a trained sleep assassin in my uterus.
Really, I blame you and TV and the parts of the Internet that feature unglittered cats and that guy at the Steak and Shake who said I can put the shake in his steak any time (what does that mean, Mom?? What does that even mean???) and hair spray. For the love of unglittered cats, I just do not understand hair spray.
So this is what we’re going to do. I’m going to start wearing orange culottes and burning pot roast like it’s my freaking job and you’re going to dress like Princess Kate on Wednesdays and Fridays and regale my neighborhood with your “blue blood ankles.” And yes, you have to say “blue blood ankles” or they won’t know what the hell you’re talking about.
Maybe if we switch places then we’ll see what it’s like to be in each other’s shoes which from where I’m currently sitting, is just lovely. Your daughter is intensely attractive and I’d make out with her if she weren’t me. Plus I just tried and hit my head on my night stand. It hurts.
So have fun wrangling a pint-sized war lord who doesn’t even know how to apply eye liner properly.
This pot roast won’t burn itself.
Yours in this life and in the next as long as the next life consists of talking roosters who compliment me on my posture,
Ericka Wilhelmina Clay
PS – Wilhelmina? Can you imagine??? Haha, no but seriously, please stop wearing orange.
I just sent it to her. Let’s just hope this puts us back on good terms. Now to take a nice nap on that lady selling suede handbags. No, wait. That’s just my dog.
I am so tired.