the pout

So this evening we were invited to a surprise 50th birthday party for a very old friend and colleague of the husband’s. The evening itself would take a whole hour to type (yes, it’s that juicy) and since I don’t have an hour and am beating the clock, I shall tell you a little tale that happened before we left. At home. In our bathroom. It’s okay, it isn’t PG 13. Don’t be that unhappy now.

The husband’s shaving.

Munchkin’s filled the tub partially, dumped a whole load of shampoo in, and was religiously dipping a blouse of mine in and out and squeezing, straining and then repeating the process. I had earlier washed a few kurtas, and since then has been itching to do it too. Since we were busy, she stood there looking like a village belle bent over the pond, taunting me.

I was pretty much close to done and was alternately yelling at munchkin to stop over-washing the blouse, and asking someone to switch the boiling pot of pasta downstairs. My hair that I’d spent a good 25 minutes on, was looking picture perfect from natural coconut fiber and miraculously it actually came out looking like I spent a $100 on it. I was feeling mighty thrilled. The sari was chosen, this time the blouse fit, and hence no related woes! The accessories were laid out and it would take a few minutes to lay it all on.

I was feeling particularly happy and …(for the lack of a better word) edgy.

So I waltz into the bathroom, and snuggle close to the husband and stand plonk in front of him sashaying my beautifully done hair. He frowns, and in a hurry to shoo me off as he had a blade at his neck, nodded his head. Not to be outdone, I squeeze myself and lay my hands around his neck insisting that he touch this spectacular mane of hair I’d created. He begins to humor me.

At this moment, we hear a voice.

Munchkin’s.

“Everybody loves mommy. Nobody loves me. What about me? Why isn’t anyone hugging me?!”

We look at her, and she’s busily “washing” the blouse, and yet murmuring and muttering to herself with a pout.

Husband dumps me like a hot potato, and rushes to go pick her up, soothing her saying “Of course I love you baby. Who’s mommy?”

Great!

Girls. Humpff! First they take your features, they take your sleep, they take your endearments, they go take your time and then they raid your closet, wear your shoes, then the jewelry, then they take your pout too!

Bah. Give me boys any day!

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