The beautiful preschool blondes are lined up in a row. All four of them are wearing bows in their hair today -- including mine. I know no one but me notices that my blonde has a couple spots on her shirt, and that under that pretty bow is a small nest of fuzzy hair that never seems to get combed out all the way. Maybe the other moms look at their own cute little blonde and think the same thing... though I doubt it.
On this day it is my job to help out at the preschool, so i am sweeping the floors, tidying things... helping the kids decorate their Valentines cupcakes...
Four hours prior i was writing about murder and mayhem and shouting "fuck!" a thousand times when my work computer locks up... or whatever the current headache happens to be.
Headaches, however, are an indulgence i don't have time to pay heed to. Where the other mothers wake with their happy children in homes that they own, kiss their working husbands goodbye and cruise lazily to the school, I spend my overnights working -- scribing useless scripts for the masses. Then i rush to get the kid to school. Then i do anything i can to stay up for the rest of the day -- a perpetual mishmash of meltdowns and sloppy mothering.
But i look at the four pretty blondes and find that on the outside -- there is no difference between her and the others. She plays happily with the other kids, crows from the top of the slide like the rest... and knows next to nothing of the cross i bear to make sure her pretty hair looks pretty. I have to work so much harder than the West Hills perfect families that populate the school, but i do it and i do it and i do. Question is, will she know how hard i work, and should i tell her?