I don't mean to be mean.
I just think mean thoughts. In my head.
This past Spring, when I was big and pregnant, I would drop Henry off at preschool and I would see this other big and pregnant lady. It was obvious that we both had toddlers. It was obvious we were both big and pregnant, seemingly due about the same time.
But the bitch wouldn't ever talk to me.
Um. wtf?
I talk to everyone. I think my husband considers it a sickness or bizarre condition, but I find it to be one of the traits I like most about myself. I will talk to anyone who makes eye contact for more than 2 seconds, which I think is a standard conversation invitation.
And if I don't have anyone to talk to I'll start a blog and pretend like I'm talking to people.
The act of simultaneously raising toddlers would have been enough of a conversation starter, let alone the fact that we were both smuggling fetuses (feti?).
But no.
Nary a word was passed between us. We could have been best friends.
But apparently I wasn't good enough for her.
Sure, she swept in with her linen pants and monogrammed backpack.
And I drop Henry off looking like a gremlin in my stained sweatpants.
But still.
This continual lack of acknowledgement festered in my brain until there was no other choice than for her to be my arch-enemy.
Linen pants bitch.
(I don't even know her name and I couldn't tell you anything about her other than the fact that we've never spoken, but I don't like her. I can tell ya that much.)
Michael tried to tell me, "Maybe she just never saw you," "Maybe she's a shy person," "Maybe she has social boundaries like regular people."
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Well guess what happened today?
I was dropping the kids off at the childcare room at the Y, when guess who strolls in...
None other than. Linen pants bitch.
We stood this close. Our arm hairs touched.
She picked her toddler up and her baby.
I dropped off my toddler and baby.
The car seats bumped.
Nothing.
Not even a "How do ya do," "Nice baby stranger," "I see you shit out that baby, good work."
She's Satan.
But I was skinnier than her...
I felt good for a nanosecond.
Until I realized that is just the thought that a mean person would think.
A mean thought.
I don't want to be a mean person. And I don't want my kids to be mean people. When they aren't toddlers anymore and aren't supposed to be mean, that is.
It hasn't even been two days since the bizarre "Children as Eyebrows" conversation with Michael:
(Oh don't worry. I'll give you a brief recap.)
As I was getting ready to go to the Dixie Classic Fair with Michael and the kids, I was plucking my eyebrows and putting on make-up.
FYI: Both of these things would have been unnecessary to attend the DCF.
When a horrible thought struck me. And I immediately ran downstairs;
Me: (Panicked shriek) "What if the kids grow up like my eyebrows!?"
Michael: "What, excuse me. What now."
Me: "I try my hardest to train them, I groom them, I buy them special products. I say nice things to them, but yet they are still unruly and I can't trust them."
Michael: "The kids?"
Me: "No. My eyebrows."
Michael:
Me: "At the end of the day they're just mean and do their own thing."
Michael: "The kids?"
Me: "NO, my eyebrows."
Michael: "You think the kids are going to be mean and do their own thing?"
Me: "What if despite our best efforts...they are and they do?"
Michael: "I guess we'll just have to get rid of them."
Me: "The kids?"
Michael: "No. Your eyebrows."
Me: "You are completely underestimating the severity of this absurd, made-up scenario and all of its implications."
Michael: "Indeed."
Now it is obvious that I am unbalanced,
but I have good intentions...
(Like many of you, I assume.)
So I'm going to try and be a nicer person. And think nice thoughts. And be a good example.
Hopefully this will prevent my children from descending into madness and rebellion.
Like my eyebrows.
If they do, I guess we'll just get rid of them.
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