is are a two reasons that I look like a hot mess most days of the week.
Their names are Buck and Bo.
I don’t know if this happens in your house, but this is what happens in my house when I make the command decision to actually shower when I’m the only person over 4 feet tall in the house:
Me: Mary Bullock, I need you to help me keep Bo safe while I’m taking a shower, ok?
MB: Ok, Mommy. May I please have a Busytown?
In terms of shows, Busytown Mysteries is her new jam. Y’all, I have taught her how to use the remote.
Me: Yes, you may have one Busytown. Make sure Bo doesn’t hurt himself, ok?
MB: Ok, Mommy.
And then I shower with the door open so that I can respond to emergencies in a timely manner. If I make it out of the shower without incident, I think, WOW! Today is going to be the day I actually wear make-up! And clothes I didn’t sleep in! I LOVE BEING A MOTHER! I AM SO AWESOME AT THIS. SEE HOW THEY LISTENED?
And then I get all bold and think I can blow dry my hair. Because there is no reason in this world to go to the trouble of washing my hair if I can’t blow dry it. And what’s the point in showering if I can’t wash my hair?
So I’m all blow drying my hair and looking at all the dark spots on my face that I’m going to get to cover up with make-up because I am AWESOME and my children are AWESOME and also Busytown Mysteries is the GREATEST MOST AWESOME SHOW EVER and then I turn the blow dryer off and
THEY ARE PRACTICING THEIR MURDER SKILLS ON EACH OTHER.
Luckily they are both currently around the blue belt level because I’ve only blown my hair dry about five times since Bo was born, so no one died this morning.
But you wouldn’t know this from the screaming. Bo’s current modus operandi is to sit on MB, pull her hair and also somehow be the one screaming hysterically by the time I run in, wild-eyed and accusatory. He’s sneaky like that.
And I have actually heard the tell-tale thump thump thump on Bo’s chubby belly and come into their room to see MB reading a book all nonchalant on her bed. So don’t feel sorry for her, either.
No, if you’re going to feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for me. And my hair, which will seldom know the luxury of hot air and a hairbrush.
At least not for the next five years.