Most mornings I take M up to the piazza and then for a long walk along the winding, country road that leads out of the village into the mountains. Either before or after the walk (depending on M’s mood/level of sleepiness), I have a cappuccino at the bar in the square.
When I’m by myself, I leave M in the stroller while I enjoy my morning caffeine as it is a truth universally acknowledged that it is much easier and infinitely safer to drink a hot beverage without a seven-month-old on one’s lap.
Last weekend, P was with us, so he took M out of the stroller to hold her (read: parade her about), but soon thereafter someone called him away to do something I’m sure was monumentally important, as most things are in a medieval hilltop village in rural southern Italy on a Sunday morning.
So he passed M off to me, and there I sat with a baby in my lap and a half-drunk cappuccino before me. Half-drunk because I had drunk half of it, not because it was half grappa or something. That’s for lunchtime.
I think you see where this is heading.
M and I played “move the cup out of the baby’s reach” for a good, successful few minutes but then . . . it was one of those slow-motion moments, where you see events unfold in your mind before they happen. The split second hesitation on my part to scoot the cappuccino cup and saucer just a wee bit more out of the reach of my pickpocket-in-the-making was all she needed.
The remainder of my cappuccino flowed over the entire table and splashed on the top of La Mommy’s legs, soaking the bottom of my long, cargo shorts, dribbling down my knees, and nestling in little pools in the arches of my sandals.
What was left of the cappuccino was cold at that point (otherwise it would have been waaaaay out of her reach so her little fingers couldn’t even come near the hot cup), but in any event—not a drop on the baby! She had been positioned sideways on my lap, set back from my knees, so she came out totally clean.
Score! At least I wouldn’t have to change her outfit!
Small victories are gargantuan in mommyhood.
As this was before our walk, I wiped coffee from my legs as best I could with the pathetic papery bar napkins, noticing with horror what a terrible job I had done shaving my legs that morning. “Shaving” is really a misnomer of what many moms of little ones do. It’s more like point the razor in the general direction of your legs, do some upward strokes as fast you can, and hope for the best.
Well, the best most certainly had not happened for my legs that morning, so I made a mental note to take the time to shave properly during M’s afternoon nap.
Fast forward a few hours later, and there I was in the bathroom, my sleeping timer snoozing away for goodness knew how much longer. I slid the razor up my shin, through the shaving foam (yes, I actually made time for shaving foam!), and suddenly got a craving for coffee.
Sure, I often have a coffee post-lunch, I thought, but then I realized . . .
It was because my legs smelled like coffee from that morning’s spillage.
I shook my head noting the mommy moment, and all I could think was that I hope I wipe my kid’s butt better than I had cleaned up my hairy coffee legs.