the smell of my desperation has become a stench

Wonder Woman

So I’m standing there in the kitchen totally craving something sweet after a lunch of leftover spaghetti (which didn’t even make a dent in the amount still left in the gigantic Pyrex container in the fridge — I’m fully incapable of making pasta for two people, or for five or ten; it always comes out in portions big enough to feed the entire population of Rhode Island), and I reach up into the cabinet to grab a small tub of chocolate pudding. And whenever I reach up above my head to grab something I automatically and involuntarily wince at what I’m going to send toppling down on top of my head. But somehow, this time, I manage to locate a pudding and to pull it down successfully, completely by itself with no accompanying cans of black beans or chicken broth. And I’m feeling really good about myself, particularly because this means I might get to go an entire day without a bruise or tin can-shaped gash on my forehead, and I reach for a spoon in the drawer directly in front of me. Again, I cringe at the possibility of mashed fingers or the tragedy of the entire drawer collapsing in a thunderous bang on the linoleum, so I reach slowly and steadily for the closest spoon. Miraculously I bring it above the countertop witout drama or trumpeting soundtrack of impending doom, and then BOOM, it wriggles its way out of my fingers and heads straight for my delicate, innocent toes. And through some unknown power or perhaps an adult-onset instinct I somehow move my foot out of the way before the spoon has any chance to dent or maim me. And I can’t believe my utter luck, and I start to think that I’m pretty cool, what with my cat-like reflexes and ability to open drawers safely. And then I start to smile, because this is just too wonderful, and I can’t help but wonder if maybe I was a superhero in a past life, a tall superhero with gigantic proportions, red boots and underwear covered in stars, yes; a superhero who could run through an entire burning building to save a cat in danger, all without stubbing her toes on any threshold or protruding piece of furniture. And just as I’m going over scenarios in my head about the lives I saved in this past life, lives and fortunes and little babies about to be gobbled up by fang-wielding monsters, I turn around with my pudding and spoon in hand and immediately walk head first into a doorframe.

Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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