Hot Mess

A few weeks ago we went to a BBQ at some new friends' house. We were just beginning the "getting to know you" preliminary chit chat when in walks Sloaney from their back yard, covered in mud, shoeless and peed pants...whining.

Without missing a beat I say "oh she's my hot mess" almost like an afterthought, kind of brushing it off.

S.I.L.E.N.C.E.

Nobody says a word...I'm not sure for lack of an appropriate response or with what I said.

In fact, in hind sight I'm not sure they were familiar with the phrase "hot mess".

Doesn't anyone watch Chelsea Lately? or Clean House?

Hot mess? Foolishness? Mayhem?

Has my crappy cable television watching hobby integrated itself into my parenting?

The answer my friends is YES.

But the answer is also that she is my hot mess. And I mean that in the most loving way. oh and the way where you want to sock her in the face when she won't GO TO BED HOLY SHIT CHILD IT'S 11PM GET TIRED! STOP TRYING TO INDUCE VOMITING!

Anyway, that whole BBQ scenario I have not been able to get over. I am embarrassed by my verbal diahrrea but I also feel defensive like "come on...lighten up!". Nobody has perfect parenting skills...oh but I did forget to mention. The husband? Is a child psychologist!

Yeah. So I'm sure the diagnosis report in his head of mother and child was a fucking novel.

From that outburst on; during the rest of the BBQ I tried to act like June Cleaver...which I'm was entertaining to watch because I have no natural tendencies that are even slightly Cleaver-ish.

I'm more of a Roseanne...with maybe a hint of Grace Under Fire.