Friday, March 14, 2008

What I deserve (Otherwise known as my rich fantasy life)

Every day, I roll out of bed and not only have to face three small people demanding food and attention, I have to face myself in the mirror.
I don't know which is scarier.
Wait. Definitely the kids, although I am a close second.
Some mornings I even roll over to find my husband in the bed. Now that's scary.
I hate it when I wake up to find he's spooning my Latin lover, Pedro. (I'm kidding. Pedro's climbing out the window when my dear husband is climbing into bed. It's nice that they schedule their times that way. Smooches, honey!)
I have curly hair. Which means, first thing in the morning, I resemble a lopsided, drunk poodle. After its been rolled a few times. In the mud. And gravel.
And I'm expected to function.
I'm expected to feed children, nurse babies, handle diapers, get ready for work, and be functional with no caffinated assistance.
It's simply too much to ask.
I should be allowed to loll in bed decidently, with a maidservant to bring my coffee and to lay out my attire for the day. My bath should be freshly drawn, lightly steaming and smelling of exotic oils and shimmering with frothy bubbles. my breakfast should be made and awaiting my arrival.
Someone else should wade through baby poo and messy breakfasts, so I can descend majestically, recieving non sticky kisses and eating my meal in sublime silence.
Instead I have demands for milk and breakfast. I am nursing a baby while trying to apply mascara. My husband is trying to tell me about his night at work. And then he's kicking me out of the bathroom for his morning constitutional, which is guarranteed to clear my sinuses as it sends me racing frantically for the door and the fresh air outside. (Which this morning smelled slightly of skunk but was still far preferable)
Evidentally no one else understands that I require these decidant treatments. No, not require. I have earned them. I demand them. I will have them.
In my next life.
Or just my overactive imagination.

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