Little Time Bomb

Sometimes I’m convinced that I suffer from some sort of mom amnesia. Momnesia, if you will.

I will do some of the dumbest shit that even a mom with a one-day old is smart enough not to do.

Take this past Tuesday, for example.

First, I started the day by waking up two hours before I had to be out the door for story time at a local library. I showered (now you’re envisioning me naked, aren’t you? If you are, what a perv. If you aren’t, what, am I not hot enough for you? Fuck you.) and then proceeded to be totally productive, and by “productive” I mean I surfed the Interwebs until Bee woke up.

It wasn’t until I got a reminder text from a friend that I looked at the clock to see that I had about 20 minutes to finish getting Bee ready, dry my hair and spackle my face with 8 pounds of makeup to make myself presentable in public.

And yes, Jamie, that was me being “presentable.” ::dirty look emoticon::

But that wasn’t even the stupid mom part of the day. After Story Time, I figured I needed to get the oil changed in my car. The reminder light had pretty much gone from “Psst! You might need to get your oil changed soon! Just a reminder!” to “Seriously, lady. You need to get your oil changed soon.” and finally “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. What did I ever do to you besides drive you anywhere you’ve ever needed to go, you ungrateful bitch!”

Upon arriving at the dealership, I was pleasantly reminded that the waiting room had undergone a makeover and now had a whole separate room (with a DOOR!) filled with tables, chairs, toys, dvds all for kids!! Sweet Jesus, I should get my oil changed more often, just to shut her in that little room and know that she’s not going to mess with anything she’s not supposed to.

So just as we settle in to our cozy little playroom, we’re told that the car should probably have it’s 30k service. Sure, sounds good to me, right?

Oh wait. “That part of the service department is going to lunch. You want a loaner car?” the bored seventeen year old receptionist asks.

Are you kidding me? Like I even have a clue how to get my car seat in and out of my car, let alone a LOANER car, all while trying to make sure that my almost 2 year old doesn’t run away and get hit by traffic?! Yeah, no thanks, Hannah Montana. I’ll pass on the loaner car.

But they up being able to service (haha, I said “service”. heh heh.) my car. And it only took…wait for it…an hour and a half.

At lunchtime.

AND we had to move to another waiting area that wasn’t enclosed and didn’t have a single kid’s toy.

So I ask you, Interwebs, WHAT. WAS. I. THINKING?!

Luckily we were pretty much the only ones in the waiting room and the other folks didn’t mind a straight hour and a half of the Disney Channel on the television.

I, on the other hand, quickly realized that (1) Australians aren’t so cute when they are dressed up and “wiggling” around, (2) Dora the Explorer is like a really bad acid trip, and (3) I need to teach Bee that I can’t magically make Word World appear on every television we come across. Aaah, the power and disappointment of TiVos.

And THEN, after that debacle, I convinced Mr. Bee to run errands at the mall with Bee and I at dinner time. We had to eat a 10 minute dinner at Duke’s because Bee was squealing like a pig from Deliverance (in a as-her-parents-it-was-cute-but-not-if-you-are-one-of-the-other-30-people-in-the-restaurant way). Then she continued to insist on running around free in Forever 21 (shut up. You know you shop there, too) and H&M. Horrific.

I went from fearing that some random stranger would snatch her up to kind of secretly hoping someone would. (KIDDING!)

But now that it’s over, I know I’ll probably do it all again. What is it about parenting that saps your brain of its energy intelligence memory? Sometimes I can’t even remember what day it is, or if I’ve showered, or what the hell is on the agenda today – play date? moms group? errands? party planning? client meeting? family dinner? laundry? grocery shopping?

Wait, what was I talking about again?

Song title: Little Time Bomb by Billy Bragg