Psycho

Not AGAIN!

I had a brilliant product idea strike me the other night in the shower. Get ready to open your purses and throw gobs of money at me, ladies, because you are definitely going to want to invest in this one.

My master bedroom en suite has the perfect bathroom. I am going to miss it massively when I move. There is a double sink, which I thought would be wasted on the single lady but ended up being great, because now I have one sink for brushing my teeth, and one for storing my hair dryer and various hair products that I no longer have any use for, since the other parents at play dates don’t often comment on my hair volume. There is a standalone shower, which when push came to shove ended up being my only real requirement for buying a house, since I lose my mind when a shower curtain touches my leg. And there’s a nice, big, room-enough-for-a-Bean-and-a-mama tub. When she was a baby I’d line it with towels and lay her in it, but now that she’s older she can take her bath, and I can take my shower, and still be able to see her. It’s a good system.

Except.

That now she’s Almost Three.

People warned me about Almost Three. I didn’t listen to those people. I thought that it was the Terrible Twos I needed to be worried about. I thought that the twos were pretty decent, and that I’d made it through largely unscathed, and that Jellybean was a perfect, wonderful, sweet child, and that I was a largely perfect, wonderful mother. But now that she is Almost Three, and can transform into a crazy person at the drop of a hat, and I never know what I’m getting, I know what those people were talking about.

I very, very seldom get a bath anymore. I took a gazillion baths pre-Jellybean, long luxurious baths with bubbles and salts and colors and flavors and music and candles and ice wines and fondue and guys shaving my legs for me and all kinds of stuff going on. Now I am just grateful if I get a 7-minute shower and there’s hot water left after her bath, the dishwasher has run, and I’ve done 746 loads of laundry. My fastidious daughter hates, HATES when there are toe lint floaties in her bath water, and two nights ago when I was mid-shower began shrieking because she was having troubles scooping them out. I guess there was one that was particularly elusive.

It suddenly dawned on me that I was washing my face for the third time, because I kept stopping to shriek back at Jenny to stop shrieking, and then I got distracted and lost track of where I was in my routine. And that’s when I added up the reason I was going through a lot more shampoo and face wash in the past few months; it wasn’t because my personal hygiene had improved, it was because I was tossing stuff around in there randomly like some kind of circus act as a result of all the back-and-forth Beaniness. And THAT’S when I got my brilliant idea. Brilliant, but kind of mean.

So we package face wash, shampoo, conditioner, soap, body wash, whatever, and market it to a Certain Age Group, and the commercials are all directed at harried mothers of toddlers. Make it a crossover product (sensitive, safe for kids, body-building for mom, safe for color-treated hair (for that grey coverage)). Can you picture it? Make it cheap, smell nice, not tested on animals, pro-gay, in recycled materials, 5 cents goes to save the dolphins or gets you a Starbucks coupon, I dunno. I think it would make us a bundle. If we could also do toothpaste that would probably be good, too. Because I am pretty sure I’ve brushed my teeth more than absolutely necessary.

Two more days til Beach Trip! (just ask Jellybean, who asked me at 5:30 am)

I think the best part is that MommieV will be able to recognize me by the enormous welt and bruise on my shin. You know, from, uh, falling in my bedroom garbage can. Attractive! We are sure to pick up the dudes.