Not My Best

Today I took a bath.

I haven't been so great at hiding my recent bout of depression. I've been sleeping whenever the kids are asleep or at school and while I do everything to make sure they're taken care of, I haven't been taking care of myself.

I'm a little surprised at how long it took my people to catch on.

Last night I got my gym bag ready for this morning. I kept telling myself I'd take a shower before bed and be ready to start the next morning fresh and new. Then I stayed up all night doing nothing. At about 3 a.m. I realized that I was avoiding going to sleep because I didn't want to have to wake up and face a new day.

I rolled out of bed and drove the kids to school this morning, then came right back home and fell asleep on the couch. I stayed there until the very last minute and went to pick up my son from preschool.

I planned on staying in my car and hiding. I didn't want anyone to see that I was probably wearing the same clothes for the third day in a row (I honestly don't remember) and that my hair was greasier than a corn dog. Oh, and a lot of facial hair has grown back too. I haven't done anything about that in a while.

But I'm not usually one to hide. So when a friend noticed me in my car with my head buried over my Treo, she jumped right in front of my hood to scare the crap out of me.

Which she did. Quite successfully.

Then I had to talk with her, greasy hair and all.

It's not that I think she noticed or cared. But I knew. And I cared.

I came back home and fed my son lunch. I knew that I had to do something to turn this funk around. So I asked my son for a few minutes of privacy and I set about to bathe, wash my hair, floss, and shave. It took me about forty-five minutes.

The whole time I was thinking about how wonderful it is to have a responsible child who can interest himself in building train tracks for that long.

Just as I was finished, Patrick called. I hadn't been talking to him for more than ten seconds when my son came running up to tell me that he got poop on his underwear.

"You had an accident?" I asked him, a bit more incredulously than I probably should have.

"No, I forgot to wipe!" he cheerfully declared.

"Well, clean up, and get new underwear."

I continued to chat with Patrick while I watched him complete these tasks. Then my son informed me, "Buffy pooped in the playroom!" He was just as cheerful about that.

Buffy has a habit of pooping when she's angry and I had dared to leave her alone for all that time. Apparently, a five-year-old boy isn't a good playmate.

I picked the poop up with a tissue and took it to flush down the toilet. Only to discover pee all over my tile floor.

"Did you miss?" I asked my son.

"Yeah, I peed too fast."

Jeez! I take forty-five minutes to recover from a week of depression and all poop and pee hell breaks loose? I asked Patrick if he wanted to trade lives. He declined.

As I was saying goodbye to Patrick to clean up the sea of pee, my son also informed me with glee, "I dropped my car in there too!"

"And did you go in after it?"

"Yeah. I got it out with my hand."

"Did you wash your hands?"

Of course not.

This is the reality of motherhood. One day they're mathematical geniuses. The next day they're peeing on the floor. If I couldn't find the humor in it, I don't know if I could survive.

But today I took a bath. And it was a triumph. Once I get the kid bathed too, I'm moving nothing but forward.