Ever since a human being came out of my vagina, I feel like a B-movie actor. Cameras 1 and 2 capture me fumbling through my lines every day. Today after a particularly stern car scolding, I turned back around and laugh-whispered conspiratorially to my brother in the passenger seat, “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing!”
I do know how to apologize, though. Working-mom guilt, raising my voice, kind of accidentally kicking her out of the way (with a soft shoe and no malice in my heart)—these all resulted in me crouching down to look her in the big brown peepers and say, “Mama is sorry.” So, I fail, I own that, and we move forward.
What I often forget is that I let some beautiful aspects of my life slip away when I became a parent. I owe them some big time apologies and it’s time to make hay.
Mon petite titty twins—remember the exaltation when you slowly engorged and filled up all the creases of a fucking B CUP!? Of course you do; as boobs go, that would have been a Dear Diary moment for sure. And then the mouth that hath no satiation glommed on and depleted all our perky hopes and dreams. I’m sorry that one fleeting flirtation with substance quickly turned into a sustenance sacrifice. You deserved better. So, I have a Victoria’s Secret gift card in my wallet. Let’s say you, you, and me go do some Pretty Woman–style shopping together? It’s not a grand return to a B cup, but babies, we’ll still have an A-plus good time.
Dear Cable Series that aired after September 2010,
I’m sorry but could you ask my friends and the media to stop reminding me how fucking great you are? How my life will never be the same because I never watched “Homeland,” “House of Cards,” “Boardwalk Empire,” and “Justified,” et cetera? Thank you. When I’m old and we’re able to slide USB sticks directly into our corneas, I will catch up.
Sorry. (Sniffs air.) What was this column about again?
Dear Floor of my Car,
I’m *cough* sorry. I gag every day because I just cannot keep pace with my kid’s shitty output. When I’m not looking my daughter must take large bites with a dry mouth and just wide mouth exhale great sprays of crumbs like a reverse, shitty vacuum. I’m so sorry that I don’t even remember what color you used to be. One day it will be better.
I see you there, stacked, and heavy, and slippery, and filled with delicious words. I haven’t forgotten you. If only I had a second to even scan your covers. It might be next year or even 10 years from now, when the fashion tips hiding inside are relevant again, but I promise I will leaf through you. Perhaps if I just move you to the bathroom.
Dear Friends Without Kids,
I’m sorry that you get to hear me repeat stories twice because I can’t remember who I’ve told them to. Double sorry if you were there when the story happened. Triple sorry if I have exaggerated it so much you think I’m a shitty friend who lies to make myself seem funnier and more with it. I’m a storyteller and sometimes you have to throw all your skills on the floor with a flash bomb and hope that makes up for everything else you’re failing at in life.
AKA the greatest forsaken love of my life. I’m sorry for not fighting long and hard for you every day. My gorgeous beast, my unbridled speckled pony, sloe-eyed with gentle nickers that I hear in the dark and always reach out for. One day we will be reunited and you can delicately step through oceans and seas while I lay passed out on your back in a tank top with one ear plug in.
Dear Husband’s Dick,
I would apologize but really, kind sir, this shit is all your fault.