Not like that

Six weeks ago, we began kitchen renovations. It was supposed to be a three-week job. Now it looks like we'll be without a sink for at least another month, if not longer, and who knows when the kitchen will actually be completed. The price has nearly doubled.

Of course. That's the way it always goes with kitchen renovations. I know this.

Except not really. Everyone told me, and I nodded politely, but I didn't actually believe them. We had done our homework. We knew what we were doing. And most importantly, we are not Like That. We are Exceptions.

Except not really. I just hate that.

Like before I had kids and I met up with a friend who just had her first baby, and she went on and on about how she was so glad to get out and to see an adult and to think about something other than breastfeeding and spit-up, and then all she talked about was breastfeeding and spit-up, and when I drove away I thought, "Geez. Thank God I'll never be like that." And then I had Owen and we had a couple of childless friends over and at the end of the evening it dawned on me that I'd dominated the dinnertime conversation by describing each of Owen's first six bowel movements. In detail. Color. Consistency. Quantity. Overall olfactory ratings.

Just like that.

Or later in the grocery store with baby Owen--chubby-cheeked, chuckling, leg-kicking, arm-waving, toothlessly grinning. His colic has passed and I've lost all the baby weight and I'm feeling like, whoa, I've got this whole mom thing down, and I see some woman in a stained sweatshirt and mom jeans shrieking at some tangled-hair little kid wearing a torn Holly Hobby pj top and a bedraggled ballerina skirt and crying because she wanted the Disney Princess sticker pack. And I think, "Geez. Thank God I'll never be like that." And then a few years later I'm in the same grocery store, same goddamn aisle, and a little kid in Powerranger slippers, a pair of faded purple shorts two sizes too small, and my pale pink lace teddy is dragging on my arm and whining because he wants Shrek pasta shapes and I crack and scream, "I SAID NOOOOO!!!" and he throws himself to the floor, sobbing wildly. I look up, and there's this really pretty blonde Junior League type with her accessorized baby and they're both staring at me in horror.

Just like that.

And now I'm washing dishes in the bathtub and part of the sub-floor looks rotten and there's a problem with the vent for the oven hood. That's the way it always goes with kitchen renovations.
Just like that. I hate it when it's just like that.