I picked my kids up from school per usual yesterday. As I arrived, I stopped to chat with Stella’s teacher, Ms. T, to see how things were going. It was a pretty typical discussion – it was a good day, but Stella lost her listening ears here and there. I’m always gratified to hear that she ignores everyone and not just me.
As I was re-collecting Felix (as soon as he hits the “big kid” playground, he’s off like a jackrabbit with his butt on fire), Ms. T asked me if Stella had gotten into anything unusual that morning.
That’s a loaded question. “Gotten into” could mean: eaten, rolled in, somehow deposited into her clothing – specifically underwear, caught in her long mermaid hair, or anything which might have caused a lasting emotional response, such as a particularly jarring episode of Spongebob. I assumed she meant eaten, as in “no I didn’t give her Snickers and ice cream for breakfast,” so I started to stammer that I didn’t think so. Ms. T, sensing my confusion, said that she was referring to her face. Seeing I was still confused, she commented on how super-sparkly it was.
Damn it. Stella had locked herself in the bathroom again and helped herself to my eye-shadow. I have a pot of very pale blue sparkly shadow that’s “hers,” but we save it for special occasions. Yesterday must’ve been special and I didn’t get the bloody memo.
So I felt like a double-ass. One, for letting my kid run amok with my makeup. Two, for not even noticing.