I do loads of very important, grown up things.
I make lunches every weekday morning and sometimes I even remember to tuck a note inside. I tell two little people that I helped make and carried inside my very own body, to clean their room. I am the one that Tate comes running to when she needs bumps and bruises kissed or to just give a cuddle when she’s upset about something in her two year old little world.
Plus, I have retirement accounts. Like actual money, not game of Life money, saved in an account for when I am old, which incidentally is not as far away as I’d like to imagine. Grown ups totally have retirement accounts.
My name is on a mortgage. For a house. And while it is tiny, it isn’t doll sized.
And someone calls me Mom and another someone calls me “Mama, um Mi—chelle.” Another person calls me his wife when making introductions to his work colleagues. And the children get fed and the animals get fed and I even keep plants alive. Mostly.
These are all terribly grown up things and I do them. I do them every single day.
But last night.
Last night, I ran downstairs to throw a load of laundry in so Finn had clean uniforms for tomorrow morning. I am very much winning the land of grown up things, but I apparently haven’t mastered the land of last minute doing of things.
And I grabbed this stain stick thingy that someone gave me a sample of and has been sitting on my laundry table for like a year probably. I grab the thing and I pull the white shirt out of the hamper because Finn mysteriously came home with an inexplicable giant blue dot right there in the center of his white shirt yesterday.
Where do these things come from?
I start scrubbing with the stain stick thingy and the blue dot starts to fade and right there, bam! Smack in the face, it was that. I’m not sure why it was that, but it was the thing. THE thing.
You know who gets stains out of clothes?
Grown ups, that’s who. And I’m one of them.