Your Presence is Requested (in the Kitchen, Bathroom, and Laundry Room)
Photo: beastandbean/Creative Commons
There was a time when I received knockout invitations: parties in dark-lit back rooms of hot new spots on The Bowery, brunch with girlfriends and mimosas in Little Italy, dinner in a beer garden with schnitzel.
Today, my invitations are more like: "Moooo-oooom. Can you wipe me?"
It used to be flattering when people asked me places. I liked it when people called my name. "Hey, Sandy," a friend would call, "Over here! Cute outfit!" Oh, how lovely that was.
Amidst young motherhood, the request for my presence is near constant. In fact, even as I'm typing this, someone is screaming my name. I am perpetually required by my children, and they never even notice my outfits. (Actually, that's not true. The other day I wore a skirt and my son asked me if I was "trying to be like Cinderella.")
Before I had children, I could be in one place at one time and relax while I was there. Sipping my cosmo, I'd sit on someone's dangerous rooftop and chat, uninterrupted. Now, when I'm invited to the kitchen (to make breakfast) or to the basement (to play robot) I only have 30 seconds to appear before being reprimanded, and the bartender is very, very short. And only serving juice.
And yet last night, the invitation to "Tuck me in again" struck me as particularly wonderful. I guess, at some point between the invitations of my youth and the demand appearances of motherhood, I got too tired to stay out late anyway. Plus, my stomach can't handle more than one glass of chardonnay. And truth be told, their little heads smell much better than beer gardens.
While occasionally lamenting mimosas of brunches gone by, I have evolved into a new version of myself. And though the 20-year-old me can't believe I'm saying this, this matured version of me prefers the invitation to make Star Wars shaped chocolate chip pancakes. Turns out my children aren't the only ones growing up in this family.
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