There’s nothing like having a child to make you suddenly aware of all your weaknesses, failings, and general inaptitude for being a human being. Yes, I know that everyone is tasked with a few bad habits. In Aura’s case, it’s the constant evaluation of the cleanliness of the ground around her. She can spot a dust bunny five rooms away, an errant piece of sock lint from thirty yards. It can be disconcerting, leading a person to develop a Dustbuster dependence that will surely and eventually lead to tequila shots at breakfast. And don’t even get me started on parking lots. I can’t count how many times I’ve found myself splayed face-first on asphalt because Aura pulled up short while holding my hand to pick up random litter. I tell you, I am practically hoarse from screaming “Not that filthy napkin! Please, NOT THE DISCARDED HYPODERMIC NEEDLE!”
As if it's my fault the floor is rife with PixOs. Who invented PixOs, anyway? I'd like to track them down and, um, converse with them firmly.
And then there’s Adam. His cocktail habit (making them, not necessarily drinking them, although he’s pretty good at that, too) is completely destroying my kitchen organization plan. (You know, the one in which I imagine tidy cabinets and then wish really, really hard for them to happen.) He now has so many bottles of esoteric rums and vermouth that the essential stuff is being shoved aside to make space. Sometimes I swear I can hear the flour canister muttering to the boxes of pasta, plotting unspeakable revenge on the encroaching bourbons. One of these days it will get bloody, I fear.
I could fit at least 50 boxes of Reduced Fat Devil Dogs in this half of the cabinet alone.
But I’m the one brimming over with non-commendable behaviors. Some habits are minor and rather inconsequential. I often speak at warp speed. I have a sweet tooth that could crush Manhattan and my Diet Coke habit just can’t be healthy. And I’m obsessive about laundry. Other habits are the kind I’d rather jump into oncoming traffic than inspire Aura to mimic. For one, I worry way too much, often overprioritizing the smallest of stuff. I can be judgmental, overly sarcastic. The list goes on.
I’m working on remedying all of these things, but hoo boy, this maternal determination thing is FATIGUING. Some habit-breaking promises have turned out better than others, though. One day, as I was filing Aura’s tiny fingernails, I laughed and showed her how much longer her nails were than mine. When she asked me why this was, I told her, a little sheepishly, that I bit my nails. When she then asked me why that was, I paused. How do you tell your adoring three-year-old that you gnaw your fingernails because it’s the best way you know of to deal with stress over work and commitments and family and embarrassing episodes of “The Office”? That they’re bitten to the quick because you sometimes get terrified of the what-ifs?
So I didn’t tell her any of that. I just made her a promise, then and there in her fairy-themed bedroom, that I would try to have nice nails, too. And you know what? I’m doing pretty well. I have my moments of weakness (the combination of the upcoming holiday and a weekend screening of “New Moon” did not help) but I have yet to nibble off an entire nail. I’m not convinced that having actual thumbnails also means that I am learning to be a calmer soul, but I figure it’s a step in the right direction.
Of course, there was another part of the promise. I told Aura that once my nails were long enough, we’d both get manicures. I already have alarming visions of fidgeting and poison glares from nail technicians and possibly the largest spill of glitter nail polish any salon has ever seen.
But I refuse to worry about it.
Is that REALLY your liquor cabinet?
This one time, Avery brought me a DEAD CHIPMUNK from the backyard. You know, so I could CLEAN IT UP.
I just threw up in my mouth a little remembering that.