That Woman

There I was, rushing out the door in heels and a nice dress, my sleepy son in tow, leaving half-empty cereal bowls on the counter and a wet diaper on the hallway floor, when I experienced a wave of realization.

I have become “that woman.”

No. Ignore the thought. I am pulled together. I am professional. I look impeccable. (Well, my nails aren’t done and my hair is still damp and I can’t find my lip gloss, but those are mere details.)

I scoop Cheerios and raisins out of the car seat, rescue a sippy cup that is rolling down the driveway towards certain death, and buckle in my son, who is yelling “Car!” and “Yeah!” at the top of his lungs. Then I get a whiff of poop smell.

“Did you poop?” I ask. He looks at me with wide eyes and says, “Caca. Potty.”

Great. Thanks for telling me now. We head back inside, I plunk him onto the potty (too late, clearly), whip him into a clean diaper, and run back out the door. With glee, my son yells, “Clack! Clack!” for the sound my heels make across the tile floor, but it sort of sounds like “Crack! Crack!” We’re officially late, but not by much. I can still make it.

We’re two blocks down the road when I realize he has no shoes on.

I am definitely that woman.

So we turn around, back into the house, grab a shoe – run upstairs for the other one – and get back into the car. On my way I glance mournfully at the lukewarm coffee lingering on the kitchen table. This “working mom” stuff is overrated.

I put my hand to the ignition and …Where are my keys?! I swallow the bad words leaping out of my mouth, as my son now repeats everything that I say. (It’s funny how something as innocuous as “Oh darn” sounds terrible coming out of a one-year-old’s mouth.)

I clack back into the house – painfully remembering why I hate wearing heels – grab the keys, start the car, and off we go.

Diapers.

This time the curses almost slip out. I am ready to give up, but no. I have responsibilities. I have deadlines. I have places to be! We go back once more. (My neighbours must have a running joke about how many times I run back into my house for something.)

Finally we are off. He makes it to daycare, I make it to school, and we reunite a few hours later. Then I walk through the door and gasp. We've been robbed.

No, wait.

My house looks like a crazy person whirled through it, pulling books off shelves, throwing pots across the floor, tossing noodles onto the wall and stripping off random articles of clothing while yelling, “Crack! Crack!”

Well, I guess that’s not too far off.