"I stay home with my three kids, actually. See them, over there? Yeah, the three blond buzzcuts jumping down from the steps. No, I don't know much of the language. Too busy, as you can see, ha huh huh...eh hem. So, I can see you have somewhere else to be. It was nice to...meet...you" and she's running for the other side of the room, afraid, I guess, that I'm going to wipe a poopy diaper on her, or that I might try to lick my thumb and clean her cheek with my saliva.
Moms. We don't order at the restaurant because the kids insist they will eat the whole whatever-it-is they want to order, but we know they won't. We assure our husbands that we are stuffed to the brim and that he must take the last piece or it will just sit there, and then we sneak a banana afterward behind the washer and dryer (no, this is not hypothetical). We have a permanent, pubescent-like breakout on our chins from the touch of sticky hands, the kisses of sticky faces, and sweaty little heads rubbing around at storytime. We have bags under our eyes, our busts have been sucked down to nothing, and you could make a coat with the extra skin on our tummies if you cared to take it off and tan it (which I kind of wish you would).
I'll be honest. I wanted to run after that girl this morning, screaming, "Do you have any idea how valuable I am?! Do you have any idea how much I have given up?!" I didn't, though, because if I had, she would have been so offended that she would have missed my final exclamation entirely - the one where I say, tearfully, "Do you have any idea how my cup runneth over?"
