It has been a busy morning. I got a 5 a.m. wake up call in the form of a vomiting child. My 5-year-old has been sick for a few days (poor kid), but my daughter isn’t YET. So, in between administering medicine, (that’s fancy talk for forcing my son to drink it) wiping snot (there is no fancy way to describe that) and disinfecting the house I have been my 3-year-old’s bitch. She calls me “friend” when we are pretending, but a friend wouldn’t boss me around like she does. First, we went to the ballet. Well, she went to the ballet. I was a dancer. She was an artist. So, I had to pirouette for 10 minutes in the kitchen while she painted my picture. I am not graceful. I didn’t make the varsity cheerleading squad because I couldn’t get my fat a** off the ground to do a Herkie. My daughter scolded me for not dancing like a real ballerina. It’s not my fault. I don’t think grinding on a dance floor in the 90’s to Stevie B counts as formal training. Here is her masterpiece of my performance:
I redeemed myself at the tea party. “It’s delicious,” my daughter declared. Phew! I would hate to offend the baby with the gigantic head on the opposite end of the table.