Parenting and family, served with a shot of vodka
It’s been a while since I’ve written, but a friend convinced me I needed to log this incident for posterity. Being that I have no pride left after becoming a mother, I decided it would, in fact, make a perfect candidate for my Embarrassment of the Week chronicles.
A few weeks ago, we went over to five-year-old Sweet Pea’s friend’s house for lunch and a play date. The girls have been friends for two years, but have become especially close lately. I don’t really know her family beyond seeing them at preschool pick-up and drop-off, but they are friendly and I’ve always enjoyed chit-chatting with them.
They live in a large house, with several family members residing there. At the time of the play date, the grandfather, grandmother, mother (and her newborn), and aunt were all at home.
While the grandfather worked in the next room, us ladies chatted in the living room as the girls played and lunch finished cooking. Soon, we retreated the dining room to eat.
After lunch, Sweet Pea played with her friend, and I remained at the dining room table chatting with mother and/or aunt for a good couple of hours. The elder family members were off doing other things around the house. Finally, it was time for us to go home, so I went to collect our coats and my purse.
I returned to the living room, and noticed my purse was askew on the couch. But I couldn’t really see it super clearly from the doorway.
All I could think was How long has this been sitting here? 10 minutes? Two hours? How many people have walked through this room and witnessed my tampon exhibition? Someone shoot me. Please. Right now.
Yeah. No shit, Sherlock. 🙂
I accelerated our exit so I could properly cry/laugh/die a little bit on the inside in the privacy of my car. I have no idea if grandfather or grandmother walked through that room 100 times over the course of two hours, or not at all. But it is where the girls spent a lot of time playing so … yeah.
Just in case this went unnoticed, I didn’t bring it up. I just skedaddled out of there with a quickness. But if the delightful mother of Sweet Pea’s friend ever happens across this blog, let’s not ever speak of this incident. And, I’ll make you a deal: You can come to our house next time — where the tampons are kept out of the reach of five-year-olds.
(To read more humbling things I’ve suffered at the hands of my sweet offspring, click on the EOTW tags. This kind of stuff is why I drink wine.)
Thanks for visiting.