My husband’s deodorant stick becomes top-heavy when it’s almost finished, when the pusher thingy at the bottom has been pushed nearly to the top. And at night when we brush our teeth, (we brush our teeth together – is that nerdy?) I usually knock down the container of cool wave-scented Gillete Clear Gel with power beads (Can you get me a new deodorant? Make sure it’s the one with the power beads) as I reach for the toothpaste, and with it everything else on the unreasonably shallow shelf of that stupid medicine cabinet. My eyes inevitably scan his shelf with all the tubes of various prescription creams and razor blades and aftershave.
“Why don’t you throw some of those creams out. They’re probably expired,” I said.
“Throw them out then,” he answered, toothpaste foaming in his mouth.
“Why should I throw them out? They’re your creams.” I spit toothpaste into the sink.
Eye roll. Michael does this thing where he rolls his eyes all the way back in his head while he’s brushing his teeth. Sometimes he does it to be funny. Other times I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it (which almost seems impossible), as he stands there brushing way too hard. His toothbrush doesn’t get a month out of its life before the bristles are arching outward. Miraculously, his gums are in great shape while mine bleed if I floss too vigorously.
“Do your job,” he said. Another of his hilarious one-liners. Ha. Haha. Uhem.
“I’m going to blog about this.”
“Why don’t you blog about this.”
“I will blog about it.”
We got into bed, I threw the duvet over us and he, of course, threw half the duvet back on top of me. Hot-blooded sicilian. I fell asleep and dreamed…
I was about to give birth to our third child. (We have two kids and I’m not pregnant.) I was wearing some weird white sundress and turquoise underwear (only slightly impractical) and I was squatting in a hospital room trying to push. (For those not familiar with childbirth, I apologize for the image you may have in your head.) When I had my two kids, I didn’t squat. And certainly not on the hospital floor. Eww.
Anyway, back to the dream…my husband’s entire family was there, as was my mom. People were coming in and out of the room. (Another detail that would never occur in any delivery room of mine. No, you may not see the baby crowning. Please leave me and my engorged vagina alone and let me do this in peace!) My niece and nephews were jumping around and playing. Then labor stopped and the doctor sent me home.
I woke up because I heard Madeleine calling me from her crib. “Moooom, get me out of here. Mom? Mommy?” This was followed by Luke running into my room and jumping up on the bed.
I haven’t had a baby dream in a while. I’ll admit it was a little disappointing, waking up without the dream having a conclusion. We’d like more kids- kid, one more kid – but we’ve decided to wait a while. Who knows if that idea will stick. Especially if I have any more of those baby dreams.
Later on in the morning I was in the bathroom attempting to put on makeup. Madeleine wandered in.
“I hold you, Mommy?” she asked.
My straight, sparse lashes were being squeezed to death in my eyelash curler. What I wouldn’t do for luscious, scoop-shaped lashes. Sigh…
“Hang on, Mad. Mommy’s doing something.”
“I need more toilet paper,” she said, as she began to unravel the roll. She was not on the toilet and she still wears diapers.
“No you don’t. Don’t do that, please.” I removed the roll from the toilet paper holder.
“No! I need that! Gimme it!” She grabbed onto the part of the holder that’s attached to the wall with so much toddler force I thought she might actually break it. She’s like a very cute and girly…Hulk.
“Nope. Go inside and play. Thank you.” I began to apply mascara. For those who go mascara-less everyday, you have to apply it quickly otherwise it dries and then you risk looking like Tammy Faye Baker. Not good.
“Gim. Me. It!”
“Do I have to put you in time-out?”
“Yes. I go in time-out,” Madeleine said, confidently.
Luke heard the commotion and joined us in the bathroom.
“I go in time-out,” he mocked her. He’s started copying everything anyone says within his earshot. Madeleine is at the age where she repeats everything she hears anyway, so when Luke does this with her she just keeps repeating back what he’s saying. The result is that I get to hear them banter the same word or sentence. Endlessly. They sound like two senile octogenarians.
“I go in time-out!” she said again.
“Enough!” I shouted. “Everyone out of the bathroom before Mommy’s head pops off! Goodbye!”
Luke looked up at me, innocently, “Why you so mad, Mom?”
Madeleine held onto my leg. “Are you mad, Mom?”