Motherhood has rendered my life into four places on the daily: Home, the car, the preschool, and the grocery store. I should probably call Flo from Progressive and get that little computer chip thingy installed in my car because I travel the same 4 miles everyday. There, back. There, back. There, back. At this point I’m pretty sure the car could independently do it if I happened to fall asleep at the sheer monotony of my life.

At times, the snoozefest is so mundane, that when the smallest variation occurs, my ears perk up. My head turns. Something different? Something new? Something… interesting? Please, please, please, let something interesting happen. I must remind myself; I asked for it.

The baby and I were heading to pick up the Monkey. We stopped at a red light and waited. That’s when I noticed the young and cute guy, checking me out in the car next to me. “He can’t be checking me out,” my inner monologue snickered. I looked around… no cars to my left, and still this cutie patootie to my right with the stare. Shocked, I gave myself a little mental fist bump, “Gurl, you still got it!” Fist bump? More like I did the fucking running man in my head. “See, you’re not old, you’re not past your prime. Even with unwashed hair, a face without makeup, and only from the waist up… strangers still find you attractive.” That’s when I noticed the hottie gesture to me, as he rolled down his window??? What? He wanted to engage in conversation? “Maybe he needs directions,” thought the sensible part of my brain, “Maybe he wants to tell you you’re gorgeous and drive off into the sunset,” wondered the dreamer in me.

I rolled down the window.

“Yes…” as I waited to hear his husky voice utter something random or profound.

“You have something on your face,” explained the handsome stranger, and the light turned green and he drove away.

One quick glance at my crimson face in the rearview was all I needed to asses the situation. A huge smear of almond butter adorned my right cheek, compliments of my baby.

“Well,” I said to myself out loud, “at least it wasn’t poop.”

I hope next time it’s not poop.




4 Thoughts on “The Almond Butter Incident