Mommy Needs A Margarita

The girls and I have been on our own for 34 hours and 24 minutes.  But who's counting?  

Nanny had a much-deserved day off yesterday and Husband made a quick trip to Bucknell to receive an alumni award. This girl time has had some predictable and unpredictable effects on me:

First, the predictable.  I find myself missing Husband.  And Nanny.  And clean hair.  And spit-up free clothes.  And adult conversation.  (And, yes, I am acutely aware of the fact that many moms, maybe most moms, endure much longer stretches of time alone with their kids.  Many, again most moms, do not have delightful nannies and super hands-on husbands.  So, I am happy to admit that I am both fortunate and perhaps a tad spoiled.  Okay, enough of the disclaimers.)

Now, the more bizarre.  I find myself thinking of the media's Bad Mommy du jour Madyln Primoff (the attorney mother who kicked her bickering teens out of the car).  Okay, I do not just find myself thinking about her.  I find myself (gasp) sympathizing with her.  Calm down, let me make my case.  Of course she was reckless and went too far.  Of course.  But she is not just human.  She is a mother.  And a partner at a law firm.  The media seems especially outraged at this final fact; God forbid a woman with a higher education and a high-wattage career lose her cool on occasion like the rest of the population.  As Romi Lassally stated earlier this week in her compelling Huffington Post piece, "Women like Primoff are expected to kick butt at work with a Fembot-like smile while simultaneously ruling the kitchen in an apron and high heels cooking organic dinners for the whole family."  As someone who did a short stint at a big law firm, it seems to me that law partners -- who spend long hours dealing with difficult clients and colleagues and cases --  might be especially apt to snap.  So, yes, this five second lawyer has a shred of sympathy for this woman.  Sue me.

One other bizarre effect this mommy marathon has had on me?  I'm craving a margarita.  A big one.  Frozen.  With salt. And I don't drink margaritas. Or like them.  

Maybe, just maybe, tense mothering moments make us do things we wouldn't otherwise do.  Like kick our kids out of a car.  Or salivate for the odd salty cocktail?

As I finish this post, I am sitting on the hardwood floor.  Baby sits to my left in her BebePod seat thing that looks like a lime (maybe that's what triggered the hankering for Jose Cuervo?) and Toddler sits to my right on her pink plastic potty. And the doorbell rings.  And Nanny walks in.

And now.  I will post this.  And begin to worry about how it sounds.  And shower.  And kiss my darling babies goodnight.  And go outside.  And savor the dregs of the day's sweet sunshine. And find me that margarita.