Oh Readers, just when you thought it was safe to walk around your house in your underwear....
OK. So, it is late, but I have to tell you about the awkward shenanigans that just went down. The thing is, our trips to and from the Special Olympics (Shout out to Uncle Awkward on his Gold Medal!) were so awkward-free that I was starting to relax. I was thinking, "Hey, Awkward Mom, maybe you are misnamed. Maybe you have a handle on this whole motherhood thing. Maybe you can start to congratulate yourself and your parenting skills, once in awhile. Could be that you even have a modicum of grace somewhere in there." Sigh. Yes, well, you all know that I shouldn't have even opened my awkward mouth. Well, I thought it. Opened my awkward brain? That sounds weird. OK. OK. I'll get to the point.
It is 9:36 and no one is asleep. Awkward Dad, who has been fighting a stomach thing since we got home, is simultaneously moaning and trying to write a note for work. Super Baby's tooth has finally broken through and the only thing that seems to help is gnawing on my finger. The Super Boys have decided that their room "looks scary" with nothing in it (most of our apartment is packed into the Tower of Boxes in the dining room and it is leaning dangerously to the left), so they have decided to go to sleep in our bed. And by go to sleep, I mean spill an entire bottle of water on my side of it, fling themselves onto the bed from the chest across the room, and sing what sounds like sea shanties at the top of their lungs. The kitchen has exploded, there are Cheeries on every flat surface of the house, and I am screaming for everyone to be quiet.
About 9:45, the boys are winding down, if a little damp, and I am settled onto the couch, glass of wine in one hand and the other hand in Super Baby's mouth. I am watching MobWives on Netflix. (Hey, do I come into your Queue and judge you?) I breathe a sigh of relief and gasp with horror at Renee's fur coat, and then there is a knock on the door.
Now, the yelling 10 minutes ago was pretty intense, so I pause the show and am gearing up to tell our downstairs neighbors (who think we stomp too much and let our children stay up too late...and they have a point) that I am sorry and we are moving in 3 days and would they like some of the jam I just canned (upcoming post, I promise). My geared-up speech dies on the vine, when I open the door to 2 adorable Mormon girls. Now, how did Mormon girls get into our building and why are they trying to convert me at 9:49, you ask? And if you didn't, you should.
Well, a little back story. We live across the hallway from an apartment that is rented by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. (Super Preschooler thinks Jesus actually lives there because they have a picture of him on their door.) We have a rotating parade of Mormon youth, on their mission year, living there, and they are lovely neighbors. They borrow sugar from time to time, are always taking out our garbage when I leave it by the door, and completely lose it over Super Baby every time they see her. They are great kids and we have reached an unspoken understanding about religion. When a new pair of them move in, I always make them some banana bread to ensure that they come over to thank me and see the large picture of the Virgin Mary that I have in our front doorway. We are like an ecumenical council over here, it is great.
OK, well, no one needs sugar. What they do need is to borrow the phone. Apparently, they only have a cell and they lost it somewhere on campus. Well, without thinking, I usher them right in and hand them ours. And step on a Lego. And notice the Super Baby is falling off the couch. And look down and see that I am still wearing the too tight Captain America shirt that Super Preschooler bled on earlier today. And chase Super Cat away from taking a swipe at their tempting-below-the-knee-skirts. And realize that a box just fell off my moving pile. And take in the full extent of my messy house in their frozen, polite faces. Then I look past their faces to my television, which I have paused on Drita, clubbing, in a leopard-skin dress, "assets" all over the place.
I am trying not to eavesdrop, as they huddle in the doorway, under the Holy Mother's picture, and I am failing. It appears they might miss a prayer meeting, due to the phone mix up and that sounds serious. I start picking up toy cars, playing with Super Baby, and making all kinds of ruckus in the hopes that they don't turn around and see the ode to perdition that is paused, mid-swig of what appears to be tequila, on my television. I don't even think they have a television. I have moved onto picking up Cheerios when I hear the toilet flush. Oh. No.
You see, I thought that Awkward Dad was in the office, safely working. Nope. It appears that he is in the bathroom and will now leave said bathroom, in plain sight of everyone in the living room. This would not be a big deal, but I know for a fact that, unless a magical wardrobe has poofed itself into our bathroom and that suddenly Awkward Dad can read my thoughts, he is gonna walk out of there the way he walked in: in nothing but his underwear. I somehow teleport to the bathroom door in time to fling myself in front of him. He is momentarily quite pleased to have me so close, until I frantically whisper something that sounds like "Mormons. Underwear. Don't wanna go to hell." He nods, walks backwards down the hallway, mostly hidden by me and my waving arms, and dives into the office. I slam the door and saunter back to the living room like that didn't just happen, and we all silently agree to pretend that it didn't. But I see them nervously glancing up at Mary to save them. Heck, I understand. I have been praying since I realized that I am wearing jeans with spit-up on them, have no idea if I brushed my hair today, and can hear Super Preschooler talking about zombies from the bedroom. I do NOT need a visit from DCFS on top of everything else I have to do this week.
They finish using the phone and all but flee into the hallway. I am all solicitous and friendly, but it probably looks all creepy and weird. I offer them our phone anytime they need it. They mumble that they might need it tomorrow at 8, and I say "no problem," while giving my best June Cleaver smile. But it probably looks more like the Joker. I close the door, thank Mary for her help, and return to the couch. Super Baby is indignant that she doesn't have a finger to chew on. I flip MobWives back on and relax into my personal Sodom and Gomorrah for exactly 4 seconds. Wait. Did they mean 8 A.M.?
Yikes! Well, Awkward Mom needs to get to bed if she is gonna be awake and actually wearing pants at 8 in the morning. Wishing you all a good night, free of shaming neighbor visits and full of trashy TV.