(Which is a whole 'nother post...I go to bed and my house is okay. I wake up and see several little fires and landfill start-ups.)
I got my act together Thursday. But by Friday, I was overwhelmed by the messes and the fighting, and the fighting about the messes.
I didn't get out of my PJs all day. And Thursday night, my PJs were awful flowered lounge pants I bought at a Target in late January 2006 and a white tank top (one might call it a wife-beater) with stains on it from a noodle that didn't quite make it to my mouth.
And in case you're forgetting, I'm not exactly petite, and "the girls" are neither petite nor teenaged any more. But hey, I'm in my house, who cares.
I'd also like to tell you about my robe. I bought it this spring when it was on clearance from Lands End. It's red, it's fleece-lined, when it's in a pool on the bed, it looks like someone killed Elmo and his entire family.
|I killed Elmo and skinned him to make this fashionable and body-flattering piece of apparel.|
It's so fluffy and warm, it makes me look about twice my size. And I'm about twice the size of a normal human to begin with. It wasn't my best purchase, but for $10, I'm not returning it. I haven't worn it since I bought it.
Tonight, Larry Potter, being a fourth grader with an ever-expanding vocabulary and observational skills, told me as I was making dinner, "Mom, I can see your nipples in that shirt."
He wasn't embarrassed about it, but just thought I should know, like if if I had mustard on my face.
I, on the other hand, may never recover emotionally.
And now, I am wearing the Elmo death robe. And will from now own.
And will try to forget that my son just used the word "nipples."