Is it not enough that my skin stretched and pulled to previously unfathomable distances while she grew and sucked all the nutrients from my body?
Is it not enough that I endured 32 hours of back-breaking labor before pushing her out of my vagina unwittingly creating a life with donut pillows and Preparation-H?
Is it not enough that pushing her out of said, once taut, once sexually appealing orifice brought new meaning to the term “loose lips sink ships”?
Is it not enough that while she sucked and squeezed on my raw, cracked nipples, I white-knuckled the glider and stifled my screams in order to provide her with a tranquil, nurturing environment.
Is it not enough that I willingly placed my hands into human excrement to keep her clean and rash free?
Is it not enough that I lost countless hours of precious sleep to feed, burp, and comfort her and that those hours were directly related to the now permanent appearance of bags and dark circles under my eyes?
Is it not enough that despite no longer being able to wear short tops for fear that she will once again compare me to a Sharpei puppy, I still finish off her grilled cheese sandwiches so she won’t experience guilt thinking about the starving children in India?
Is it not enough that I gave up driving a zippy little sports car so I could schlep she and her friends to Pinkberry for what I believe to be a completely foul-tasting, artificial, and non-nutritive treat?
Is it not enough that I bury my deep hatred of the claustrophic, carbon-copy, monotony of shopping malls so I can
waste spend my time miming a coat hanger while she tries on clothes.
NO! APPARENTLY IT’S NOT ENOUGH!
Apparently I still have not given everything I have to give because even though every shirt in my closet now resides in hers, and even though my shoes keep finding their way onto her feet, she still comes to my closet to BORROW whatever the hell I’ve got left!
And apparently, though she is highly intelligent, she is somehow not smart enough to conceal her tracks. Lights left on, her clothing abandoned and twisted into painful contortions on my floor, a tell-tale trail of hairbands, socks, ribbons. More likely she just doesn’t care - which is worse.
I could let my closet inventory continue to shrink until there's nothing left for her pre-adolescent clepto fingers to grab but that means I'll be carpooling the kids to Pinkberry bare-ass naked. (Just writing that gave me the shivers.)
I'd love to see the glass half-full on this one. To go out and use this opportunity to buy myself some pretty new things. But I know if I do she'll be back in my closet, like a roach, feeding off delicious new treats.
I could try to hide my new loot but who am I kidding? She sees all. I can't get away with a small clump of mascara on my lashes.
Some of you are probably thinking, "Just buy her her own clothes and shoes and she'll leave you alone." To you I answer, "You must not have a pre-pubescent daughter." Been there, done that. As much as I attempt to reason, threaten, and demand "enough is enough" those words are not in her middle-school level vocabulary. She just smiles her pretty smile and talks her sweet talk and before I know it I'm down another pair of sandals.
I love my daughter, truly I do. She's a kind person, sensitive, and strong, and I have faith she will continue on that path. But as far as my closet goes, I want her outta there!
Tomorrow I'm calling a locksmith.
Monday, March 24, 2008
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