For Your Reading Pleasure, a Bad Mommy Story

Today started relatively well. I slept in until 9, the boys got up and entertained themselves without destroying anything for an hour or so, the cat only meowed loudly enough to wake me 2 or 3 times...Good morning.

Hutton ate his lunch with plenty of time for us to go catch the bus, and Harrison said he wanted to walk to the bus stop with us, so as I was getting him dressed, I thought Hutton was ready to go. We walked out of the front door, and were starting up the street when Hutton announced he needed to use the bathroom.

"Are you sure? We don't really have enough time."

Hutton, now screaming and crying, "Use the potty!"

OK. Number one, we're not going to be able to get him back inside, have him use the potty, and get back to the bus stop before the bus arrives.

Number two, in his newsletter from Kindergarten last Friday, the teacher announced that they no longer refer to it as "using the potty". Now that they're big Kindergartners, they say, "using the bathroom."

So, I quickly tell Hutton to say, "Use the bathroom," as I'm dragging him through the driveway. He falls down on the gravel and his screaming increases, as I try to herd him and his brother into the house and towards the potty bathroom. As Hutton pees and cries, I notice his dirty, scraped up palm from falling in the driveway, and feel bad, but continue to be the Bitchy Mom that I am, and tell him angrily that next time he needs to use the potty bathroom BEFORE we leave the house to catch the bus. I hurry him through pulling up his pants and washing his hands, still bitching about the fact that we're going to be late, and run up the street, carrying Harrison and half-dragging Hutton behind me. Hutton is crying that he wants me to hold him, because his hand probably hurts, but that isn't part of the Bitchy Mom's plan.

The bus arrives as we're still 50 yards away. When we finally reach the bus and I strap Hutton into his carseat, he is still upset about falling down, and probably about being dragged into the house, dragged down the street, etc. The bus driver cheerily tells me we don't need to run next time. Plenty of time. I give her my best fake smile and hustle Harrison off the bus, so we can walk home with me all sweaty and frazzled and Harrison happily pointing out the cars and horses we pass.

Did I mention I have a very short fuse?

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So, after Harrison and I have eaten lunch and I have returned to Stable Mom mode, I call to get myself an appointment for a haircut. Hubby watches Harrison, or rather, lets "Curious George" babysit him, and I drive off to enjoy an hour's peace, and try to return to a look that doesn't say, "Cousin It with purple hair". As I'm enjoying my peace in the hair salon, I notice a little bag in the hairstylist's drawer with the words, "For Your Pleasure" written on it. It's in a drawer with a bunch of shavers and curling irons, but for some reason, I don't associate hand-held appliances and the words "For Your Pleasure" with getting my hair cut.