Family, Life, Motherhood

A Sight For Sore Eyes

Last Mother’s Day weekend, I was having a slumber party in our basement with my daughters and my niece.  The girls spent about 2 hours playing FatBooth on my phone and then switched to catapulting themselves back and forth between air mattresses.  I was lying on the floor checking my e-mail, when my 4 year-old went flying through the air and dexterously landed on my face.  I instinctively yelled “FUUUUUCCCKKKKKK” as searing pain ripped through my eyeball.  I jumped up and ran upstairs to get some ice.  I could hear my niece yelling “Aunt Erin said the f-word, and I know how to spell it: F-U-C-K!” as they screeched and laughed hysterically.

Thank God Mike is a doctor because his quick thinking probably saved my life, as he handed me an ice-pack and told me he “couldn’t believe a 4 year-old kicked my ass.”  What was obviously not funny to me at the time became uproariously amusing to me the next morning when my eye was entirely black and blue and Mike and I had a sexy rendezvous planned for later that night.  In preparation for our date, I had purchased a slutty little red dress, fake eyelashes, tanning lotion and decent underwear.  And to further profess my marital devotion, I even popped the maximum recommended dosage of Advil and went to the waxing Nazi. I had every intention of looking saucy in hopes that Mike would realize being trapped into a lifetime of servitude to me can occasionally be rewarding.   Sadly, we looked like Ike and Tina Turner and since my face hurt when it came into contact with oxygen, doing it was altogether out of the question.  We ended up watching some romantic episodes of “Cheaters”and some murder shows in our hotel room instead.

My pitiable saga continued the next day as I flew to California to meet with an editor my dad knew.  I walked through the airport with a mournful look on my beaten face.  A darling lesbian even barked, “That’s right girl!  You leave the bastard!”  I solemnly nodded in agreement.  In San Diego, my dad met me at the airport along with my 2 confirmed Erinsays fans/stalkers (who I conveniently happen to be related to) holding big signs as I came down the escalator.  My dad then made a point of telling everyone that he was “my pimp” and that he had “bitch slapped” me, hence the black eye.

*Author’s Note: Occasionally I hear people make the ludicrous statement that “we pick our parents before we are born.”  I disagree entirely.  I simply cannot imagine ethereal little unborn spirits pining for a crack-whore mother, Charlie Sheen for a father or in my case, 2 certifiable nut jobs for parents. 

Anyhow, I will never forget this cherished time I spent with my dad.  I loved watching him get pissed at me when we got lost for the umpteenth time because he sent me to public schools and I never learned how to read maps.  It was fun to reminisce about my painful childhood and the therapy that ensued.  My dad laughed at the disapproving glances we received from strangers because of my eye.  I laughed as he dragged his bad leg through the sand.  It felt like my dreams were finally coming to fruition and I had landed the lead role in a douche commercial as my dad and I strolled arm and arm down the beach.  It was SO beautiful .  XO

 

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