Chocolate Hangover

God and heaven have come up over the last few months as well. Magic used to be an appropriate answer to all of the burning questions my kids had but lately, the questions have become a little deeper. My three year old for example asked if you could chew in heaven. I immediately said, “of course.” “Yeah, because how could you eat if you couldn’t chew, then you would die.” She replied.  Ah yes, the circle of life.
Just retrieved some clothes from the dryer and will fold them momentarily. I have been working on a stain that my husband claims full responsibility for. The other night after watching the Hangover, (maybe if we didn’t watch so many movies I’d have more time to write?) we made our way down to the bedroom and I noticed several streaks, chunks and spots of what must have been baby poop all up my arm sleeve. I recalled another incident when I nearly licked what I thought was guacamole off of my arm and it turned out to be excrement, so I was not so quick to stick out my tongue this time around. I was pleasantly surprised when the smell on my arm wasn’t that of feces but chocolate. Puzzled.

It couldn’t have been chocolate from a bite of a fruit ‘n nut bar that I had three hours earlier, far too much chocolate and far too few raisins.

I retraced my steps and remembered a sound I heard when I was walking down the hall to check on the girls about an hour earlier. It was my husband sneaking over to the cupboard the minute I left the room to devour as many chocolate covered almonds from his stocking as he could before being caught. I guess by me. Why a grown man feels the need to hide his shameful snacking is beyond me. Apparently, in the process of munching his candy at record speeds he heard me returning to the room and in juggling the bag of nuts, dropped several on the floor. What he didn’t realize was that one nut landed on our new baby’s neck in her bouncy chair that was rocking right next to his seat.

So, when I traced the source of my shirt stain, I quickly found a soiled bouncy chair, baby blanket, sleeper and a whole almond, now without any chocolate as it had all melted, stuck in a crease in the back of the baby’s plump neck. There I was at 11pm, soaking clothes, washing myself and the baby and scolding Greg who was more than a little apologetic having been caught brown handed.
I thought about writing last spring when I was driving my girls home from a gymnastics practice. As much as I love watching them, being their mommy waiting in the wings, at the end of the day, I want them to know that I am more than just the underwear washer, vomit slinger and the person who has no entitlement to any privacy whatsoever.

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