leslieism

I get home from work, drop an enormous pile of mail onto the kitchen table, all while my daughter(bless her heart) incessantly describes(in every minute detail) her school day. I’m not gonna lie, I flip on the tv and hand her a snack…her attention is redirected as I allow the television to rot her brain. Mommy hides in the bathroom…a moment to herself, pretending she is in a spa. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and look at my tired eyes. I close them and take a deep breath. Exhaling slowly, I open them… and laugh, almost a little too heartily being that I am alone, as I notice the haphazardness of my unruly hair. I remember that I have been accused of thinking I’m glamorous…because I write a blog. Ahhh, haters will hate and I, well, please allow me to illustrate my glamour.

Beginning with the craze of curls I am trying to contain in a sloppy bun, on the top of my head. A headband holds back the wispy locks not long enough to accompany their cousins in the bun…while a few rogue curls, frizzy from neck sweat, say hello. And what’s this? I once thought the glittery silver appearing in my hair on occasion was cute. However, at some point, glittery silver turned to stark white and “on occasion” turned to “regular basis”. And currently one of the “regulars”, if you will, is standing all wiry and erect…like a beautiful flower reaching for the sun. I laugh as I remember the time I found a bobby pin in my hair…no idea how many days it had been lost in there. Yes, this is not glamorous so much as it is nappy. But not as glamorous as making out with a guy, passionately…and as he pulls his hand from my head….surprise! A clump of my hair. I recently fell off the five hour energy drink wagon…side effects include hair loss. So hot. This is literally the stuff fairytales are made of…

I pluck out a few of my hairs that have woven themselves into my fleece, jealously wishing they could be made into a hair sweater. My cheap, black, fleece is spotted with tan cardboard remnants from holding heavy cases of dairy products against my stomach for most of the day. I sigh a small sigh and look at my pants.

My black pants are becoming more of a very dark and dull black-grey. They feel a little breezy between the thighs as the threads barely cling together, due to excessive chaffing, due to excessive cake eating. (Oh and a little factoid here, I did some research on my white hairs…turns out sugar can kill the melanin in the cells of hair follicles…not allowing hair to have color. I have since cut back on cake.) I have dried splotches of live and active cultures, or in laymen’s terms…yogurt, on my left leg. No big deal, it’s cool to be covered in probiotics. Gross. I’m buying new pants tomorrow. Okay, and last but not least, my boring, black, work shoes…a stream of creamer has left what looks like a fossil imprint of a leaf on my right shoe. I mean, I am literally glamorous from nappy head to fossilized toe.

It’s time to make dinner. I strip off my fleece and work shirt in the kitchen and throw on top of the washing machine. I decide that tonight, I am not going to put on oversized sweats and a grungy shirt per the norm, I’m gonna don jeans and a cute top. I unbuckle my belt and undo my pants, and get pulled from my bedroom as the kid yells for me. It’s a commercial, her snack is gone and she has remembered more about her day. I start to make dinner while she talks and I snap in and out of conscious and active listening. Every once in awhile I ask her to repeat something because my brain so kindly picked up on an important key word; while I was thinking about what kind of vegetable we should have…what bills I need to pay this week…who would I pick for a bff, Will Ferrell or Adam Sandler…can we go to a Temple if we’re not Jewish…don’t forget school conference and fast pitch sign-up…I’m not going to choose, we are just going to have to be 3-way best friends…etc. I’m almost done with dinner and I look down. I’m wearing a tiny, black, tank top and my small boobs are pushed up and out, via my bright, periwinkle blue, slight push-up bra. (I decided long ago that wearing a bra that makes my bosom appear larger than reality, is quite a stupid mirage. It’s not only false advertising, but at some point, possibly, the guy I’m trying to impress with my falsehood…is going to learn the truth and probably be disappointed.) My belt is hanging open and my pants are unbuttoned. I actually look trashier and more frumpy than if I had just put my sweats on. I yap at my daughter to wash up as I button up and buckle up. I grab my work shirt off the washing machine…shake it and put back on. I look at the mirror above the sink and giggle as I apply the red lipstick that makes me feel vintage pretty. Feeling sexy and glamorous, I shove the mail to the other side of the table and we sit down to eat.

I could now talk about cleaning up puke or picking out lice or my broke down car…you see, I by no means think I live a glamorous life. However, more than once I catch my daughter staring at me…like I stare at her when she isn’t looking. The most loving stare a person can ever receive. And then she tells me she wrote an essay about me for school:

“My Mom…
My mom is truly amazing. I have never really known how to show off my mom for all the things that she does. I always have wanted to. So this paper has given me a chance to talk about how amazing my mom is. I will be telling you about how and what I feel about my beautiful mother with blue eyes. Please enjoy my topic of who I enjoy.

First of all, my mom has so much love for me. She always tells me “ I love you” every day like your supposed to, if your a parent. But when she does it, she really means it. I bet your wondering how I know, well my mom tells me “ look me strait into my eyes and tell me that you know how much I love you” . Another reason why I believe her is because she is so close to me. she would never lie to me and I would never lie to her. I just know her so well that I truly trust her. As a kid is supposed to. But I don’t do it because i’m “ supposed” to.

Second of all, I like how she says that we can talk about whatever I’m feeling. That means that I can talk about my feelings at the end of the day and my mom will help me through them, without hurting my feelings. She also could help me with problems that I am facing. she will see what is wrong and help me make the right decision. Since my mom took college classes on Dreams, Memories and Believes, she sometimes helps me with any of those things.

Third of all, my mom is just a great person. Yah she might be late sometimes or is addicted to cake, but that doesn’t change anything about her personality. About her glorious personality. Sometimes people just need to stop looking on the outside and just start looking on the inside. But fortunately my mom has both good on the inside and outstanding on the outside.

Fourth of all, my mom and I have a few special things that we like to do. For example we have our little adventures. An adventure to us means, when we go on walks we like to go to different places each time and learn new things. One time my mom and I went somewhere and kind of got lost on the way back, eventually we found our way home. One time we discovered this place called the Japanese garden, eventually we made it a habit to go there.

In conclusion, I love my mom and she loves me. So I hope that you enjoyed my picking of person, of who is special to me. I love you mom and I hope that kids across the nation are able to say that to their mothers as well.” ~E.J.

And here we have it…proof that I am not glamorous because I write a blog. I am, in fact, glamorous because my kid thinks so. THIS is the stuff fairytales are really made of…