Every single one of us is scarred from the childhood encounter of when we walked in on our parents having sex.  I hid behind a stereo speaker for an hour trying to get the images out of my innocent six-year-old mind.  Now its 36 years later, the images of my parents in the sack are still haunting me, and I’m writing about how I’ve possibly done the same kind of irrevocable damage to my own child.  

So, it started like this… I might have had a few drinks.  I will recount what I can, but some details are fuzzy.

I’m not sure where we were that night, but after we got home and paid the babysitter, my husband was hungry...for food.  So, he made himself a bagel, an “everything” bagel to be exact. You know, the one with poppy seeds, sesame seeds, salt and a bunch of other stuff stuck to it. Too lazy for cream cheese or butter, he took his toasted everything bagel, put it in a paper bowl and headed upstairs to our bedroom.  He changed into his t-shirt and bed shorts, put on the awful wire-rimmed glasses he has had since high school, and settled into our bed to watch Sports Center…with his bagel.

Enter the buzzed and seriously irresistible wife.

I am a seductress.  I walk in and assess my prey.  I sashay to the bed.  I don’t care about the poppy seeds on my bedspread, I am all about my husband. I kick off my shoes, pull back the covers and pull down his shorts.  At this point I am pretty sure he puts his half-eaten bagel down, but in my foggy memories, I can’t be 100% certain.  I am standing at the side of the bed bent over my husband, doing what naughty drunk wives do to remind their husbands that even after years of marriage, their wife still has it going on, when I get “the tap.” I’ve only been going at this for a minute, so it isn’t that kind of tap.  It’s a tap on my shoulder, the back of my shoulder…from behind me.  Even in my cloudy state of mind, I know that in my husband’s prone position on the bed, there is no possible way he could be tapping the back of my shoulder. Which only leaves one possibility…it’s my kid.  Here in my room.  With this…happening.

Oh. My. God.  Quickly, I pull up the covers over my husband’s lower half and turn cautiously to see my sleepy little girl.  She may be sleepwalking, I think to myself.  She seems pretty out of it.  Her eyes are only partially open. Did she see anything? How long has she been standing there?  With my back facing the door, she couldn’t have witnessed my actions, right?  Please God, don’t let my little girl run away looking for a 1980’s stereo speaker to hide behind.  What have I done!

“Mommy, I can’t sleep.  Can you stay with me for a few minutes?”

Well, hell.  “Of course, honey. Let’s go lay down in your bed.”

My kids sleep like the dead.  They play hard and sleep hard and when their little heads hit the pillows, they are usually out for the night.  But tonight, my darling girl seems to know her drunk mommy is up to no good, so she needs a snuggle.  Seeing how I left her dad pitching a tent in the bedroom, I do everything I can to get her to dreamland.  I hum, I rub her back, stroke her hair, we snuggle, we talk. OMG, just go to sleep!

Finally, after my several failed attempts to sneak away, she is out cold and I am finally able to slide out of bed and slink out of her room avoiding all of the squeaky boards on the way out as not to stir her from her newfound slumber.  I walk back to the bedroom and find my husband propped up against the headboard half-asleep, still watching Sports Center, with an empty bowl and bagel crumbs all down his t-shirt. Jesus Christ, he seriously ate the rest of the bagel!  At a time like this, he finished his snack and acts like nothing permanently life damaging just transpired.  I climb up on the bed and get under the covers.  I look at him again, totally content, belly full of bagel, sports on TV, and…his shorts still around his ankles. I start to laugh. Hard.  Snort-laughing. I just can’t stop.

“What?” He asks.

“How was your bagel?” I say through snorts and sobbing laughter.

“Sorry, I was hungry.  Now lock the damn door and get over here.”

Needless to say, every time we see an everything bagel, we laugh hysterically and remember our drunken night and “the tap.” Our friends bring up the “everything bagel story” every once and a while and we laugh until we cry recounting the horror of that night.  I am so thankful for a husband that still adores me after 12 years and two kids. We have fun and laugh at ourselves, and we ALWAYS lock the bedroom door!

To this day, our daughter has never mentioned that night, so I am sticking with the “sleepwalking” philosophy. Maybe someday she will write a blog article about the time she walked in on her parents going at it with a bowl full of baked goods nearby.  Let’s hope not.  

 

M@th%rf*ck*ng Pajama Day

My Olympic sport is getting myself and two children ready and out the door in the morning. It is a shit sport, no medals are handed out, and my husband is an active bench warmer.

I do try hard. My girls’ hair is always done, clothes are almost always clean, teeth are brushed, and they each get a package of mini muffins and a piece of fruit for breakfast.  All while I am getting myself ready for work, packing up backpacks, finishing lunches, making coffee, packing the car, and waiting for my husband to sashay downstairs so we can begin the day. Bronze medal contender, right?  I do my best to remember the “item of the day” or which kid needs crazy hair, pajamas, or an extra t-shirt for tie dying.  Most days I get it right, but other days I don’t.  When that happens, the feeling of pure failure that I feel when I walk my beautifully dressed daughter into daycare and hear, “oh no, mom, you forgot it’s PAJAMA DAY” is overwhelming.

Goddammit I hate forgetting pajama day because your kid is an outcast the entire day and I might as well wear a scarlet letter on my chest showing all the other moms that I didn’t read the stupid calendar that hangs right inside the door I use to exit to my garage. It’s not like the day I forgot to send a packet of gelatin or the day I sent my husband’s XXL Polish and Proud shirt for “heritage day”.  This is simple and easy.  The kid wakes up in pajamas, change the undies (or not) and you are good to go!

Can a brain be full? I really feel that between work, home, my kids, and our schedules, my brain truly has reached capacity.

For the record, I don’t baby my kids. I try to teach them that shit happens and you need to roll with the punches.  Life isn’t perfect and you don’t always win, so I think it’s important not to be the parent that drives all the way home to get the pajamas and bring them back to school, however, it doesn’t change the fact that I feel like shit because my kid is sad as a result of me forgetting to do something.

Now I know what you are thinking…who gives a shit if the kid isn’t wearing pajamas. They will live and being different builds character, you will live, forgive yourself and move on with the day.  I want to do this, I really do, but when I feel that I fucked up, I think about it.  A lot.  To the point where I obsess over calendars, and dates, and lists in an effort to make sure I don’t forget anything else.  The only thing that really helps me is when other moms tell me their stories of how they screwed up, too.  Comparing stories with my fellow Olympians of the ridiculousness of the failure we feel daily is what makes me smile, give myself the gold, and look forward to sitting in the daycare parking lot and searching my trunk for an item that starts with the letter “X”.  FML