Life is Like a Box of....Exlax

With all due respect to Momma Gump, I have what I think is a more realistic analogy. Life is like a box of Exlax. It looks good. It even tastes okay. But you know with dead certainty that more often than not someone's going to need a good pooper scooper by the end of the day.

This post is dedicated to all those hard-working, devoted parents who are trying desperately to survive parenthood with their sanity intact, their credit rating out of the toilet, and their blood pressure levels in the safe zone. As if accomplishing those things weren't enough, chances are good that one or more of their children will be trying just as desperately to prove my Exlax analogy. If I were a betting woman, I'd put my money on Mom and Dad as the couple voted most likely to need the old pooper scooper.

Let's explore some of the evidence I have to back up my theory, shall we?

• My oldest daughter read me the riot act the other day for borrowing one of her necklaces without asking her permission. I had a little trouble feeling bad about this error in judgment on my part because my brain was fogged by the fact that she was wearing my red blouse while delivering her lecture about having respect for the belongings of others. You know the one I'm talking about? The red blouse I bought as a reward for myself for not killing her at birth? The same blouse she immediately claimed as hers when she saw it for the first time, reminding me that, "Muuuuther, you KNOW you don't look good in red. It washes out your color." Uh huh. She was actually HELPING me, you see. This is the same logic that has lost me innumerable pairs of shoes, scads of makeup, and even boxes of tampons. "Muuther, you shouldn't use tampons! You could come down with a nasty case of toxic shock syndrome, and at your age, you'd go just like 'that!'"
• I have an annoying little habit. I like to shave my legs and armpits with some regularity. So sue me. There are five razors in our shower stall. I'm old, and I confuse easily. Besides, they all look the same to me. And I was desperate. My arm pits either needed a shave or a braid. I opted for the shave. The next morning there was a note on the bathroom counter. "Muuuther, you used MY razor. ALL the razors in the shower are mine. I don't know where yours is. Please open the bag of disposable razors that I got you for Christmas and use one of them in the future." Five razors. She has FIVE razors. I have a disposable and a styptic pencil. I also have razor burn and "skippers" on my legs because I'm not allowed to use her shaving gel, either, but what does THAT matter, eh? Forgive me, Daughter, for I have sinned. Again.
• I can't wear my favorite perfume anymore. The Daughter has a dog with a VERY sensitive olfactory system. "He SIMPLY can't tolerate anything more strongly scented than Safeguard, Muuther." One whiff of my perfume, and he starts to heave and shudder and starts playing out a death scene that would make Shakespeare proud. I've pointed out to her that this is the same dog who cheerfully sniffs the butt of any creature he comes near, but she swears his "sensitivity" is legitimate. I've been warned that if I continue to use my perfume I'll be eligible for inclusion in the ASPCA's Most Wanted List. It doesn't matter one iota that this dog can produce enough noxious gas to clear out the living room, or even the entire house, with one expulsion of gas. Nooooo. That's "natural." That's "healthy." That's God-awful, that's what THAT is.
• Talking on the telephone is another problem. At least when I do it. Heaven forbid my talking on the telephone two rooms away should provide such a distraction that she can't concentrate on one of her 30+ weekly episodes of CSI! You know me. I'm just a barrel of distracting fun. Who in their right mind could easily pass up the opportunity to listen in to one of my phone conversations when I'm explaining my latest experiment with using hemorrhoid cream for eye puffiness? Then there's the problem with my breathing. I do it. That's the problem. "Muuuther, could you PLEASE stop making that racket while I'm trying to listen to the radio? Honestly, you should have that checked!" What? WHAT? The air goes in, the air goes out. How have I transgressed? As far as I can tell I don't wheeze. Nothing comes shooting out of my mouth or nose that shouldn't. And I SWEAR, if I feel the urge to snore, I quickly take myself off to my bedroom where I can do so without tumbling whole civilizations. Sheesh.
• She "needed" to borrow my car the other day. And the day before that. And the day before THAT. But the latest instance of borrowing was needed because she had to go pick up some dinner for herself at McDonald's. She had to go to McDonald's because the balanced, healthy meal that was prepared for her didn't suit her craving du jour. She had to go herself, rather than asking either her Dad or me to go FOR her, because her father was away, and I was on my near-death bed with a rotten cold. Go figure. She needed to borrow MY car because her snazzy little two-door Cougar doesn't have cup holders, and she didn't want to risk a spill on her leather upholstery. MY leather upholstery, however, isn't worthy of being protected from stains because I drive a big, honking SUV. The obvious correlation here is that I lost the last of my "cool" genes the moment I bought the Explorer and thus gave up my right to care about whether I sit in a pool of spilled sticky soda goo. Coolness has its privileges, and I abdicated mine.

I love my daughter. I really do. But sometimes I think that if I don't assert myself I'm just going to curl up into a withered ball of Muuther Putty and start dribbling when I try stand up to her petty tyranny. Sooo...

The other day while she was out of the house I gave her dog a teeny, eeny, weeny bite of an Exlax and let him "play" in her room for a few hours. When she discovers his indiscretion, I'll calmly hand her the pooper scooper and remind her that parenthood can really be a bitch sometimes.

And then I'll go downstairs and breathe REALLY loud, just because I can. :-D