The Mother Land

As a mother I've learned to choose my moments. When I say choose my moments, I mean to meticulously plot every task or chore or indulgence to take place during Jordan's nap time or after bed time. New Gossip Girl ep? Nap time. Catch-up phone call with long time friend? Bed time.

Every once in a while, however, the Fates condescend to smile upon my morning and preoccupy Jordan in such a way that I am able to wipe a counter or clean a dish without her carefully inspecting the backs of my kneecaps by way of pressing her cheeks against them with Rudyesque determination. Or another of her favorites, "helping" me with the kitchen by emptying the dirty silverware in what she deems their rightful place (the pots and pans cabinet) to be found a few weeks later, along with her stash of sippy cups. I recently had such a morning, and while I was finally getting around to the two day assemblage of dirty dishes, the Fates interested Jordan in the living room.

Do you ever just airhead out? Do you ever kinda get absorbed with what you're doing and forget that you have a sixteen-month-old responsibility? Ok good, glad to hear it. Whenever I get these moments to accomplish a housewifely duty I first confirm that the bathroom and bedroom doors are firmly shut, and I am sure to occasionally check on Jordan - because duh. She's miniature. But I am a space cadet. Sometimes it's a few minutes before I notice the telltale silence in the adjacent room.

Oh, well that's fine. She's just standing in her slippery footie jams on the slippery plastic seat of the tricycle that's been sitting untouched - and I assumed unwanted - in our living room for months. Right next to the sliding glass door...that's made out of glass. (Insert that weird double-take noise that's in pretty much every episode of Scooby Doo.) Oh, no no Jordan, that's actually not fine.

Mom, don't I look B-A?

Jordan don't use that acronym. And get down from there.

I guess I should've anticipated this development. I've been so indulgent about letting her grow out that mullet. Mullets speak to the biker lifestyle and rock n' roll frame of mind. Next she'll have a barbed wire tattoo on her thigh where her diaper indents are and will be belting the lyrics to Sweet Child o' Mine right along with her father. Sean's the one stopping the scissors, see. I'm pretty sure he's trying to model his daughter's look after Whitesnake

Although I wouldn't mind far right's volume. or shiny pleather leggings.

I've deviated. Since allowing my daughter that taste of freedom blowing through her Joe Dirt 'do, she lives and breathes trike. I've placed it in the middle of the living room so that when she simulates Easy Rider every morning, she doesn't break on through to the other side (of the slider) but instead lands on the carpet. Responsibility at its most lustrous.

Well the trike has freed up a little time in my mornings (for cleaning of course, not blogging), and there could be worse babysitters I suppose (like a tequila bottle) but I'm pretty sure I heard Jordan humming We Built This City of Rock n' Roll so I don't know if the trade-off is worth it. If she starts hedging at getting her tragus pierced we'll revisit the topic.