Called Out on the Carpet

The other day my son ran over to me practically breathless and beside himself. "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! Come see, I have to show you, come see now, I have to show you. You're going to be SO surprised. You're going to freak out, come see now!" Of course I one hundred percent believed he was about to lead me to a leaning tower of coffee mugs or a sink filled with shaving cream and red hots (again). But no. This time, I really was surprised. I really was going to freak out. I really didn't love it.






















"It's YOU, Mommy!" Smiles. Smiles. Hopping. Smiles.

"It's...................... me?" It was like looking into a mirror.

"It's YOU! Aren't you surprised? See...here are your arms, your legs, your nose holes, your eyes..."

"And my hair?" I say pointing to the rug where half a French beret was teetering on my bald nugget head. Ooooh la la madame.

"Yes!" he decides to throw me a bone, "and these are your legs but... I forgot your feet."

"Nice Bud. You got me. You really captured my essence. Especially the hair. That is me in a nutshell. Well done!" Seriously, especially the hair.

"But I forgot your feet." He looked absolutely crestfallen.

"Ah, whaddaya need feet for when you're a shapely baked potato? Feet are overrated. Those stick legs will do the job just fine." Definitely generous in the leg department, there is that.

"Okay Mommy. I'm sorry I forgot your feet." Really? Are we not going to discuss the portly beige elephant in the room?

"No way, I LOVE not having feet. I won't have to worry about putting my shoes on the shoe rack ALL day!" Take the high road, Mom. He's only a child. He's not your husband.

Two high fives and one great bear hug later and I really am quite psyched to be the Lady in the Carpet wearing a few nose holes, Picasso eyes, and shopping in the elastic waist department.

Sh*t. At least the round blob of lard in a pool of Jello shots is smiling. I am a happy little porker, aren't I?