That blanket is not gonna cover it

Audrey will occasionally still shower with me.

Mainly because I am chronically running late, what with balancing the managing of my mini-empire and the general sloth that is the hour or so after the kids are off to school. 

It never fails, there is at least once a day that I look at a clock, look down at my pajama-clad, ponytailed self and go "oh, shit."  I've tried all the tricks: the set your clock five minutes, ten minutes fast; set your alarm and when it goes off, stop what you're doing and get ready; get up and do it before you wake up everyone else; lay everything out the night before (as if wardrobe decisions made that much in advance stand a chance of making it out of the house without, oh, say you dropping the mascara wand only to have it bounce down off your boob before angling back and glancing your favorite shirt just enough that you have to change.  Yes, the shirt ruined, I couldn't get it out; I'm no good at that.) 

I'm just always doing too many things at once, or trying to sneak in just one more thing before I go.

At any rate, it also never fails that I overshoot the time I need to get Audrey into the bath, and if it comes down to Mommy getting a shower or Audrey getting a bath, Mommy does take precedence.   Which led to me "saving time" by throwing her in the shower with me, because although she is small, and thus not too offensively stinky, there are only so many times I can ask her as I comb, "What IS that in your hair?" and let it go without my conscience nagging me all day.

I am envious, to the core, of a friend who once told me that occasionally,he showers "until all the hot water is gone."  So deeply envious that if there were a way for me to flush all the toilets in that neighborhood at once, thus depriving his house of all the hot water and giving him a nice cold jolt, I would.  Without hesitation, and I would giggle when I heard the ensuing shout.

And then I'd do it again.

One morning about a week or so ago, I was in  one of my gotta-get-going-shower frenzies, and I was running around in my underwear.  I had to get something out of the dryer and Audrey was coming up the hallway, wondering what was taking so long, why hadn't I called her to come get in yet?

She saw me, and disappeared. 

She came back, throw blanket in her hands, holding it up like she was in Pamplona.

"Here, Mommy,"  she giggled, as she wrinkled her nose, "you need to cover up."

Perfect.  Just what I needed.  As if self-criticism isn't enough.

Does she not realize that I carried her for nine months with these unsightly hips, walked miles around the house with her with these pudgy. dimpled thighs, and were it not for the magic of underwire...sigh. 

Instead, I popped the blanket at her as she passed me, "We can't all have perfect tushies."   I suppressed images, promises to myself that I'd seek out a Stairmaster with a vengeance that very day.  Because I realize I'm not that uber-Mom.

We made it through the shower just fine.

And for once, we weren't late.

Well, five minutes doesn't really count, does it?