Who Ya Talking To?

Recently, my son had a sleepover with his cousin, Paisley.  As Paisley was getting ready to climb into bed, she stopped to say her nightly prayers.  While she conversed with her maker, my son walked into the room.  He was confused.  This was a sight foreign to him.

In our house, we liken religion unto Star Wars.  There are good guys and there are bad guys.  We want to be the good guys because they get to fly the Millennium Falcon.

So when Everett heard Paisley talking, he became concerned.  "Who's she talking to?" he yelled and began dancing around trying to get a better look, "Is someone in there?"  He busted into the room, ready to take down the intruder.

Not knowing how this all fit into our Star Wars scenario, I began looking for my stash of tiny pink umbrellas.  If I couldn't have my margarita, at least I could decorate the house as if I had.

Like Mother Like Son

I find it ironic that my son chooses to look like this on a daily basis.  This is also exactly what I look like after a five year margarita hiatus.  I think the world would be a much better place if neither one of us looked this way.

The Smell in the Vacuum

Back in the early days of going solo, without a margarita, good decisions were hard to come by. Consequences of my actions weren't always apparent.

For example: About two years ago my son zombied into our bedroom complaining he didn't feel well. Before I could grab my glasses from the bedside table, throw up was projecting across the room. My husband managed to calm him, change his pajamas and get him settled back down, which left me to attempt to rectify the situation on the carpet.

While attempting to not gag, I picked up the major chunks. I then used carpet cleaner to eliminate any salmon colored stains. Despite my best 3 AM efforts, there were still small chunks burrowed in the fibers. Finally, I threw a hail Mary and grabbed the vacuum.

In hindsight I can see where I went wrong... I reached for the vacuum instead of a margarita and now every time I use it, the aroma of that night's events come back to haunt me.

FOR SALE: Slightly used vacuum.

I am Lord Helmet

Tonight as I was sweetly hugging my kids good night, Everett, my four year old, said, "Mom, your hair looks like Darth Vader."

Is this a good thing? I wondered and hoped. He does love Star Wars, but no matter how I tried to justify it... It basically meant I had helmet hair. This was definitely a margarita moment and my only option was to lick a stale lime from the fridge, which in no way made it ok.

The Missing Margarita

My last margarita was October 20, 2006. I am not "recovering," just doing what's supposedly best for my family. You see, October 20, 2006, was the day my husband and I decided the world would be better off with mini clones of ourselves roaming around and we got pregnant 15 minutes later. In the five and a half years since, I have either been pregnant, breastfeeding or too tired to squeeze a lime and the results are terrifying. Moms need margaritas... They just make everything happier, smoother and clearer, but for some strange reason they are frowned upon during this stage of our lives. So these are my sober mommy mishaps and the reasons why I long to be "wasting away in Margaritaville.".

Cheers to motherhood! Double cheers to doing it sans tropical liquid bliss!! And triple cheers to when I can have my next margarita, which will make it all ok.

Oh and by the way... February 22nd is National Margarita Day, so think of me with each salty sip.