I have a confession. Sometimes I pretend that I am a movie star. Reese Witherspoon maybe. It's when I go to the grocery store with kids hanging off my arms and a pair of jeans with holes that are 'oh so not chic'. No make-up, hair in a ponytail, debit card buried in a bag with diapers, cheerios, and old receipts. This is when I enter my own little fantasy world. I am super famous and totally cute. The paparrazi is just around the corner waiting for me to do something that will make dicey headlines. Do I give them what they want? Oh no, not this gal. I patiently help my dear children put the bread back they pulled off the shelf. I stay focused. I even smile at the cashier and make small talk with the woman behind me. Tomorrow the headlines will read how sweet I am. How down to earth and focused.
Back straight, head up, and confident she was as she navigated the cold cuts aisle....
A little shallow? Maybe. It gets me through the store though and it's kinda fun.
Other days I involve my kids. Yesterday I was about to snap. The house was bombed. Seriously. Nucleur explosion. I was actually in the bathroom when I heard a woman's voice in my living room. I dashed out to find the former owner of my home walking from the living room and into my kitchen. We bought the house six months ago from an elegant older woman who was downsizing. She had come by once before to make sure we 'got settled' and tell us not to scratch the hard wood floors. When she owned the home it had three thousand dollar rugs and antique chairs. She had driven by and seen that we had not raked the leaves in the front yard. She wanted to let me know that if we didn't rake the grass would die. The front door was unlocked so she had come in. The look on her face was priceless. Thing is, we don't own expensive things. It's not so much the price (well, part of it is) as much as the fact that my youngest draws on things. We also tend to have 'those' days. The ones where every dish has been used but not washed. The kids have been playing dress up and the clothes are everywhere. Those clothes are mixed with the three loads that have been dumped on the coach.
The apologies for the state of my home were profuse. I was embarresed. I was mortified. I was a little indignent.
Enter Reality TV. Old owner leaves and I turn to my kids. They know the look. They slowly back away and pick up the ice pop that has been dripping on the Walmart rug.
Cue the British accent.
We are a reality TV show of proper people who follow protocol. We have just entered a home that is atrocious!! We pinch our noses while picking up the perilous laundry and depositing it into the basket. We bemoan the lives of the family who lives here and surely do not know about impropriety! We wash dishes while humming Mary Poppins and twirl while vacuuming the rug. Camera crews are following the dialogue as we explain how people simply cannot live this way!
There are moments in my life, however brief, when I actually do have it together. For the other 364 days of the year I always have reality TV and the paparazzi.
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