I look at the clock.
I have less than two hours before my friend shows up on my front doorstep, and there is still much to do.
I don’t need an immaculate home before someone comes over. I do, however, hope that they’ll be able to walk across our kitchen floor without getting their socks covered with sticky juice or stabbed by bits of dried-up rice. I also aim to have the toilets free of wads of toilet paper and not overflowing with a child’s monstrous poop. Seriously, why do kids have such big poops?
Aim high? I don’t.
I convince myself that the time I have is enough to get everything tidied and myself changed into something presentable.
I toss random toys into baskets and hide messes behind bedroom doors.
I fly through the kitchen with my broom and mop.
I flush and scrub the toilet, repeatedly, while hollering for my kids to get dressed.
Then I swiftly apply my makeup and put on the clothes I had selected the night before.
I look at the clock.
Well done, Supermom. Well done.
In 25 minutes, I’ll be hugging my friend and chatting a mile a minute.
I decide it’s time to relax with a cup of coffee. After all, I worked hard to get everything done on time.
My finger is hovering over the button on the Keurig when I hear it …
“Mommmmmmmy! Help me!”
I run down the three stairs to our half-bath and nearly wipe out on a pool of pee.
What. The. Heck?!
My 3-year-old stands there sobbing.
“I peed,” she cries.
Furious, but hiding it the best I can, I try to strip her down. The wet clothes cling to her.
“Let me do it,” she screams at me.
**What is it with 3-year-olds? Seriously, she wants to assert her independence now?! Why couldn’t she just pee on the damn toilet when she had to?! Now THAT’S independence.**
She pulls away from me and leaves the bathroom. I cringe at the trail of pee she will leave behind her as she mounts the stairs to her room, but I have no time to fuss with her.
My feet and pant legs are drenched with urine.
I quickly wipe up the mess and clean the floor.
I can still be ready for 1:30, I’m sure of it.
I run upstairs.
My daughter yells for me to take off her dress.
**Seriously? Now she wants my help?!**
I try, but the buttons are small (and many). So I do what any crazed, time-limited mother would do; I tear that dress off of her. My daughter laughs hysterically while the buttons fly everywhere.
I direct her to get some clean clothes on and run to my bedroom.
I decide to change into my default outfit, a black maxi-dress. I take everything off but my underwear.
All of a sudden, both of my kids start screaming that there’s a bee in the house.
They barrel into my bedroom and jump on my bed while I’m standing there, looking at them in shock, pretty much naked.
I see the bee (which is actually a fly) as it whizzes past me and lands on the bedroom window.
I swat at it with what I conveniently have in my hand, my bra.
Damn. Missed it.
I swat at it again and miss it.
The stupid thing buzzes around my head and lands on the window once more.
There is a crazy beast inside of me which rarely shows its ugly face but, at this moment, the wild woman emerges. I start swatting ferociously at the fly, with the chorus of my children in the background, screaming, “Get it, Mommy, get it!”
The fly dodges every aggressive whack of my bra.
I don’t know what takes my gaze from that fly, but my eyes meet with those of my neighbor who lives in the condo across from me.
No! No! No!
Even though she saw me (and my naked breasts), I drop to the floor quicker than you can say “fly swatter.”
I hang out on the floor for a few moments, my dignity mingling with the dust bunnies under the bed.
I slowly crawl to my feet and proceed to get dressed.
I look at the clock.
We made it.
I weakly smile at my kids and give them one last bit of advice.
“Don’t show our guest your bedrooms or the playroom and pleeeease don’t tell her about the fly.”
My girls nod in agreement.
We sit in the living room for a couple of minutes. I can barely believe we look so composed.
The doorbell rings.
Everyone, including the dog, jumps up to greet our guest.
I open the door to say hello.
The first words out of my 3-year-old’s mouth:
“Hi, you can’t see my bedroom or my playroom because they’re a mess …”
Fortunately for me, she neglects to mention her fly-swatting mama.
So dear friend, if you feel like invitations to my home are rare or overdue, just close your eyes and picture my house covered in toys and pee (but please don’t picture me in my underpants swatting flies with my bra).
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