During a free hour this morning while both of my boys napped, I fled to run boring errands with the greedy excitement of an escaped convict. To the post office I skipped, to the bank I frolicked and to the car wash I putted to get five months of grime, soot and other L.A. air poop off of our car.
Without baby in tow, I initially found my mind wonderfully free in its ability to drift, wander and meander about the most whimsical of thoughts. As I sat on the uncomfortably warm and sticky orange pleather seats in the outdoor waiting area, I studied the scene laid out before me: rows of wet cars amidst a sea of sweltering, Amor All soaked men dousing wheel wash onto dusty black threads of well worn rubber--an old cream bio diesel Mercedes with an USC alumni window sticker--a severely dented minivan with missing side view mirrors and chipping paint--"it's hard to be green" licensed plated new VW bug with a fresh daisy in the dash vase--a shiny red Land Rover with spinney hub caps and extra large muffler--a large blue nondescript SUV with fuzzy bunnies suctioned and hanging from the inside of the windshield next to a collection of air fresheners dangling from the rear view mirror.
I began to wonder how successful I'd be at correctly matching those waiting around me with their perspective vehicles . . . scruffy young guy in wrinkled pants with untied sneakers and tie dyed shirt. . . yes, that bio diesel is yours . . . and um, old Hasidic Jewish man with the long beard . . . yes, the dented minivan is yours (you'd have to live in a predominantly Hasidic Jewish neighborhood to understand)--and then--Noah! . . . is he still napping?, does he have a fresh diaper on? . . . . hmm, wanna-be gangster on my right, that spinney gas guzzling beast must be yours--and then--Noah! . . . is he happy right now?, is he comfortable?, is he hungry?, does he need me?, is daddy managing? . . .
Well, so much for my mind being wonderfully free in its ability to drift, wander and meander about the most whimsical of thoughts. I guess it's just a curse of being a mom--there's no darn off switch.