There is never a dull moment in the life of a mother. You enter a mall on a Sunday evening followed by a crazy busy weekend. You yearn to unwind the day, pampered by retail therapy and a sumptuous meal. But, wait a minute, your sash of being the best Mom in the world is about to be stollen, if the next minute doesn’t pull you off your feet and lands you where you never want to be.
Hubby innocuously drifts into a massage parlour claiming his weekly off from matrimonial drudgery. I anchor the girls into an outlet of my choice – one that has nothing to do with kids. This totally upsets them and the older one gets the Universe conspiring.
She announces her ‘Poop-mergeny number 1001’! Period. I freeze. I want to disown the two girls at once and race out of the mall in a frenzy. But then, clause 356(a) of the Motherhood Agreement, signed and saved on Cloud(and updated regularly with changing age group) sends an instant Warning. I pull a straight face and automatically cruise in the direction of washrooms at top speed, making a chain with my little musketeers. My choice is the Superior Room, spic and span, luxurious toilet meant for the chosen few. The girls are in awe at its sheer size, while I drop a jaw.
It’s been a decade of getting into this petty affair and I am quite a seasoned player by now; but I always end up on the losing team. I still feel as disgusted. I urge my daughter to finish her business quickly. I thank my stars out loud for the presence of a jet spray in immaculate working condition. On second thoughts, my voice may have been a tad dramatic and I am hoping this room is soundproof.
And you know girls. They can talk anywhere, literally – about the birds and the bees and the interiors of this beautiful piece of real estate that has now begun to smell extra special, thanks to in-house talent. I am horrified and cannot hold my breath any longer. I just wish to get out. Finally, a good fifteen minutes later, my ears are obliged with the announcement I have being dying to hear. We make good use of the wash basin, tissues and hand dryer, making sure we have used every single feature of this priceless venue. It reminds me of an old commercial – ‘Somethings in life are priceless, for everything else there is Mastercard’.
Then we march out – embarrassment personified; with our heads clasped on our shoulders and gaze pointing at the ceiling, avoiding any eye contact with the half a dozen people queuing outside. We don’t even want to guess their reactions upon witnessing not just one or two but three females cat-walking out, looking all refreshed, no touch up needed.
While I walk down thinking, “Why never the husband?”, the devil calls up to announce he has choped a table at our favourite restaurant. He scores his point, while my mood uplifts anticipating a different palette of smells that are ready to tickle my taste buds to storm into action. Two feet below my nostrils, a war has already been waged. The reason, simple. I just mention, “C’mmon my yummy dummies, Daddy’s waiting for us”. Then there is this uproar over who is yummy and who’s a dummie. I wonder, why they never have to sign any papers before choosing their parents. They get away with everything!