It started raining while the toddler and I were in the carpool lane to go pick up the older monsters yesterday.
Fuck you, I yelled to no one in particular because, once again, I was wholly unprepared for the shit South Florida threw at my gut.
I was wearing shorts, shorts I would never wear outside our house because they are too short but holy hell are they comfortable and by comfortable I mean, my gut can hang out in all its muffin top glory. My shirt still had syrup from the morning’s pancake fest with the toddler. I looked like a hooch who hadn’t done laundry in about a year. I didn’t even wash my face. Was that mayo on my face?
The baby had chocolate stains all over her shirt because I’m a fucking great mom and gave her M&M’s for lunch. Stop being so judgy, you judger. M&M’s were the only way to shush her while I got work done. Also, I didn’t put any pants on her. Isn’t that what diapers are for? Seriously, this clothing ritual is obviously too difficult and beyond my skill set for me to manage.
Basically, the toddler and I looked like we just crawled out of the apocalyptic hell hole.
And why did all this nonsense send me into a tizzy? Because I had to get out of the goddamn car to get the kids because there was a little drizzle. Drizzle! And I had to tug down on my shorts, while carrying the toddler while I walked inside the school and hide the fact she only had a diaper on. At least her little body hid most of the syrup stains on my shirt, but by the way people gawked at us, I think I just made matters worse.
I’m leaving a blanket in the car so I can wrap myself in anonymity the next time this shit happens. A very large blanket.