Glass Doors, Motherhood and Hot Deliveries.

Motherhood. It’s got fine moments. It’s got great moments. And it’s also got moments that make you wonder if you have any sanity.  


This morning, I get of the shower to find a toddler, not where I left him with duplo and his favorite episode of Paw Patrol, but walking around with a bag of spinach. As he starts whining for “salad drink” aka a green smoothie, I throw a huge promotional robe from the hubs work on and head to the kitchen. I would have put my cute one that actually fits and stays tied on, but it was in the laundry covered in who knows what from yesterday’s breakfast. 


I make the smoothie, serve it up to everyone and almost have mine finished when I notice red from the strawberries everywhere. Nope, that’s blood. My thumb is bleeding and it’s on the yogurt tub, the counters, the blender and the robe. I must have cut it while slicing the  strawberries. Then the doorbell rings. Normal people with wet hair, a robe that doesn’t really stay on right and a bleeding thumb would have ignored it. But not me. I’m forced to get it as my 2 year old flies toward the door yelling “PIZZA!” 


I glance up and see it’s the FedEx guy. The young semi hunky one at that, which only makes matters even more embarrassing. See, this problem wouldn’t be as big of a deal if I didn’t have a glass front door. For the love of God, can we please stop building homes with glass doors? They’re the bane of a stay at home moms existence. The poor delivery guy is staring right at my just out of the shower, big robed self, while my toddler is basically licking the glass expecting pizza to come out of the shoe box sized package he’s holding. 


I shuffle over to the door as the robe comes undone. I jump back behind the kitchen wall, reassemble and wrap my thumb in a napkin while I’m at it. When I finally make it to the door, he looks at me with eyes full of wonder. Not like “what a natural beauty you are” wonder but more of a “you’re home all the time and you still manage to look like a disaster every time I’m here” kind. 


I sign for my package, which is in fact shoes (really amazing mint ones at that), managing to not get blood on his signature pad. I wrote an M and that’s about it. He looks mortified at my thumb in the air, wrapped in an already red napkin. 


“Bad timing, huh?” he asks. Yes. I would say so. I just chuckle as I think about how a young, single guy would manage a day in the mom life. 


I think if he were to come back in an hour, or 5, I could almost guarantee a scene just as frightening. It’s how we do it here in motherhood. Unless it’s nap time. Then, don’t even think about touching that doorbell. Drop that package and run.