How Great Sex Made Me a Good Mom

I just had the most fantastic birthday I’ve had in  years. So lovely but back to daily life. Doing the laundry, trying to figure out healthy menus and the shopping list. Cutting costs. Which leads me to now: in some kind of martyr I’ll-make-up-for-spending-money-birthday mentality I cut my own hair!! I know some women who trim their own bangs or the sides of their hair–adding a layer–and do it just fine. I know they did it because they tell me after I have given them extended compliments. I found the scissors and reached right up and cut off way too many inches. I screamed. Not just at my hair but because it’s was like I had been possessed. I looked down at my own hand in horror.

I didn’t have enough coffee, I am getting a cold, I don’t know exactly why I was delirious enough to think that I am one of those skillful women. I mean even though I can sew and am crafty I am not a person who can tell my hands what to draw or paint. and that should have been a clue. Somewhere between the brain and the hand there is this breakdown of command. Peace signs and hearts. That’s all I can draw on command. And when I paint the house–even the blue tape doesn’t help me from splattering the entire scene. I am frantically calling Down At Lulu’s now to get an emergency fixer upper.