I feel like a shmuck... yes, I said shmuck! Emma has her ballet recital this weekend. Dress rehearsal is on Thursday, and today was the day that they were going to do the recital for the parents. In full costume. With hair in buns. And make-up on.
Well... I forgot. Hey, as I said before my brain is being sucked through my boobies at an alarming rate since I have been nursing. Cut me some friggen slack here.
We get to ballet (5 minutes late) and Emma rushes into the studio. I notice that there is no one in the waiting room so either there is a fabulous sale at the "Get Nailed" nail salon next door, or I have made a horrible horrible mistake and today is parent's day. As soon as Emma rushes in and sits down with all of the other little ballerinas, she starts to notice that everyone has their bea-u-tiful recital costumes on and she has her ordinary pink one... and I didn't even comb her hair this morning, I simply pulled the curls up in a off center pig tail. She turns to me and in a very loud whisper says "MOM! WHY DON'T I HAVE MY DRESS ON?" I put my finger over my mouth as if that could possibly quiet her and I tell her that everything is OK.
She sits for a few more minutes until the little girl next to her says "Why don't you have your costume on?" (Can I just call this child a brat now? Brat!) Emma looks to the girl on the other side of her and she not only has lipstick on, but she looks like her mother used the same lipstick on her cheeks as blush... a technique that my Grandmother perfected in the car on the way to Mass years ago. Emma turns to me again and says (in a very accusatory tone I might add) "MOM, WHY DIDN'T YOU PUT MY DRESS ON ME?"
It should be pointed out that I was not the only bad mom there today. One of the popular "posh" moms (who can forget the "posh" moms?A Fly On The Wall... ) forgot about the costume today as well. She has teenagers and this three year old... the only thing she really has to occupy her mind with is this three year old, and what vacation home they are going to chose to fly off to next week. I at least can blame the baby... right?
Well, I caved. I quickly motioned for Emma to come to me and then I grabbed her hand and hustled it out of there so fast that you would have thought I was an Olympic sprinter. We made it home in 2 minutes flat (red lights are optional for a mother on the edge) and I whipped Emma into her costume and even put some lip gloss on her and dashed back to the studio just in time for them to start the performance.
While I was sitting there watching my daughter, who was now all decked out in her $80 costume, do her little spins and twirls that I have spent $50 a month for her to learn (which by the way, I want my money back) the baby decided to let out a big ol' poo. This was the kind of poo a bear has after hibernation... when he has to poo out the plug of twigs and berries that he ate last fall with an enormous amount of grunting and pushing. It was a big one... and it was all over her outfit and my beige shorts (the only shorts that fit me since her birth.)
And people wonder why I drink so much...