I do believe I’ve uttered the words, “I don’t ask for much…” no less than 17 times this week.
It’s not like I’m asking for an around the world cruise.
Or my own personal island.
(Which I would love because then I could boss and people would listen because it was MY personal island and what I say goes.)
(Whatever. I wouldn’t really care because I’d be on my own personal island. So who cares if anyone did anything?!?)
No. I ask for, what I do believe are, simple things.
Is no shoes at the office too much??
(A boss actually saw this on Facebook and asked me personally, to please keep my heels on. Because if I didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to see me.)
(Such a funny, funny man.)
(Apparently, I’m short.)
None of you mom’s of teenagers told me about the drama and the life-ending tragedies to expect. None of you. I thought we were all like a little gang. I thought we all kinda stuck together. I thought we all had each others backs?
It’s not like I birthed her and have had 15 years and 11 months of spanking her, reprimanding her and putting my good sense in to her. No. I got her at 14.
(And God just laughed and laughed and laughed.)
Before bed the other night, I said to Keith , “I don’t ask for much, but I have got to get some new bras this week.”
(He doesn’t care.)
(But yet, he knows it’s best to appear as if he does.)
15 minutes later, Cayla came to the bedroom while Keith was in the shower. It was just me and her.
She showed me one of her bras.
Held together by a safety pin.
ME: “Baby, why didn’t you tell me you needed another bra?”
HER: “Because I forgot. But I need two of them. Pretty bad.”
ME: “We’ll go Tuesday after I get off work.”
(I need bras, too. When I was single, I bought pretty bras all the time. Never didn’t have a pretty bra. Never had a bra with a stretched out strap. Never had a bra with a hook missing.)
(Now, I do.)
She now has two pretty bras to add to her collection of other pretty bras. Which costs about the same as my car note.
HER: I love these! Thank you! The sales girl told me to be sure and hand-wash them or use a net bag in the washer. They’ll last longer and won’t get so old so quick.
ME: Oh. OK. So you should use one of those little net bags? Hmm…like that one I bought you when we bought your last set of over-priced bras? That net bag that you never used because you said you knew how to take care of them and didn’t need the net bag? That kind of bag? Oh, OK.
HER: I get it. You were right.
I am now too broke for my own bras.
After we left the gym the other day, I said to Keith, “I don’t ask for much, but I have got to shave my stupid legs tonight.”
This getting up at 4:45ish and leaving at 6:00ish and not getting home till 6:00ish only to wash clothes, do dinner, take a 4 minute shower wasn’t cutting it anymore. I wanted a bath. I real live bath so I could shave my legs without taking off half the hide on my ankles.
That night I went to start my bath. The bath I had been waiting on for days.
No hot water.
I knocked on Cayla’s bathroom door.
ME: “Baby, are you about done? You’ve been in the shower for almost an hour!”
HER: “Almost…I gotta shave my legs then I’ll be done!”
I froze at the closed bathroom door. Just looking at it.
I still have hairy legs.
I love her. I do. With all my heart. But I want new bras. And I want hairless legs.
I don’t ask for much.
Or do I?
All I heard when I got married and acquired a teenager was how much fun I was going to have and all the shopping we’d do and all the long talks we’d have and all the secrets we’d keep.
And all of that is true. More truer than I can even put into words.
But nobody…nobody…once told me about all the being broke I’d be and the crying fits I’d have to shuffle through and the long glares I’d get because I added mushrooms to the pasta.
Nobody ever said this motherhood stuff consisted of old bras and hairy legs.
Is she worth old bras and hairy legs? Absolutely.
Does that personal island I’ve never asked for occasionally cross my mind? Absolutely.
Would I take her with me? Abso-friggin-lutely.
But she’d have her side of my personal island and I’d have mine.
And on my side of my personal island, old bras and hairy legs would be the hip thing.
‘Cause it’d be MY personal island.
And I’m hip.
If only in my mind. On my personal island.