Today, I had some free time between clients, so I decided to go get my driver's license renewed. Except I wasn't wearing any makeup. Shit. What's a girl to do?
That's right. I drove to the nearest Ulta and totally used all of their makeup to beautify myself for the stupid DMV photo. Except, in the process, I ended up purchasing $110 worth of makeup from Urban Decay. Which was exactly 3 items. And? I still wasn't able to renew my driver's license.
Well played, Ulta. Well played indeed.
Then I ran a bunch of errands, did a bunch of paperwork, and got home. Not 15 minutes had gone by before I heard my 10-year-old son Z, moaning helplessly for me, from the half-bath off the kitchen. Sometimes he needs to squeeze my hands when has to make a really big poop, so I obviously assumed this was the issue. I cracked my knuckles in preparation, and stepped into the bathroom.
It wasn't a big poop. Instead I he was perched on the toilet, holding a piece of toilet paper on his left shin, looking up at me with mournful eyes. I was confused, but only for a second. Then I remembered his habit of picking/scratching at scabs and halfway healed cuts. Then this conversation happened:
Z: *moaning* Mamaaa! Help me, I'm bleeding!
Me: *sigh* You've been picking at a scab again, haven't you?
Z: I need a band aid quick!
Me: *bigger sigh* Ok, hang on. Let me look for one....
Z: Owwww!! Ow Ow Owww!!!!
Me: *eyeroll* Ok, here. I found one, let me put it on.
At this point, Z began squealing in agony as he nimbly avoided allowing me to place the band aid on his cut. He is very wily, and his maneuverings required much dexterity on his part, considering that was still on the toilet.
Me: Dammit Z! Let me put the freaking band aid on you!
Finally, he allowed me to tend to his cut, and I finished putting away the groceries, mistaken in my belief that we were done with the subject.
But no, we were not.
Z: *still on the toilet* Do you want to know what really happened?
This gave me pause for thought, as I began to sense that this injury was not his run-of-the-mill picking injury.
Z: I shaved my legs.
Me: *choking* You did WHAT??
Z: Yeah. I found a razor in the sink, so I shaved my leg when I was on the toilet.
His sister happened to be in the kitchen at this point, and our eyes met in mutual understanding, compassion, and absolute f*cking hilarity. And totally silent laughter, because he's sensitive.
Despite his sensitivity to to social faux-pas, Z was completely oblivious to the absolute silence following his announcement.
Z: *calmly* Well, I wanted my legs to be all silky-soft and smooth, so I would have something nice to pet.
I should explain that Z is extremely sensory-seeking when it comes to petting soft things, and getting tight hugs. It's just part of the grab-bag that is my fabulous son.
Me: Hmm.....well....I bet you know not to do that again.
Z: But feel them! Feel my legs, didn't I do a great job? I mean, they're SO SOFT!!!
At this point, my 14-year-old daughter decided to join in the conversation. She knelt down (he's still on the toilet, remember), felt his legs, and remarked, he really did do a good job Mom. You should feel them.
So I leaned down and felt my 10-year-old son's legs. And it's true, they were silky smooth.
I nonchalantly grabbed the razor out of the bathroom sink, and tossed into the garbage. Just then, Z called out to me, you should really hide those razors from me. I'm pretty sure I will want to do this again.