Last week, my kid didn't have clean underpants to put on after her shower so I told her to slap on the bottom half to her bikini. This tells you two things. One: I am some kind of Wonder Mom. And two: I needed to do laundry.
My Some Kind of Wonder Mom status revved up to a new level when we were out of both eggs and bread and I served my kids leftover birthday cake for breakfast.
And I should mention the complete and utter humiliation my kids suffered when I stopped by the gas station on the way to the pool and pumped 19.87 gallons of fuel into the Honda while wearing only my swim suit.
I'm a rock star mom. A total rock star mom.
And I should mention the complete and utter humiliation my kids suffered when I stopped by the gas station on the way to the pool and pumped 19.87 gallons of fuel into the Honda while wearing only my swim suit.
I'm a rock star mom. A total rock star mom.
In an attempt to make up for the lack of underpants and pumping gas in my swimsuit (but not the birthday cake breakfast because what kid doesn't want a birthday cake breakfast?) last week I succumbed to the begging and pleading of my youngest child to go to Chuck E. Cheese. I don't know why I resist Chuck E. Cheese … maybe it's the weird smell or perhaps that I don't care for the food. But, as my oldest reminded me, there is one perk to going to Chuck E. Cheese: Skee Ball.
And I love Skee Ball.
I really, really do.
Generally speaking, I'm not a terribly competitive person. It doesn't bother me to lose at bowling, Ultimate Frisbee, Wii golf, or 'Proud Mary' on Just Dance 2. I simply enjoy playing the games. However, there are a few exceptions to this rule. Those are Bingo, Words With Friends, hula hooping and Skee Ball.
I will take you down at Skee Ball.
I don't care that you're six and it's your birthday party (true story).
Skee Ball is my game. It's one of three sports (the others being roller skating and the aforementioned hula hooping) in which I have any skills. And I have made Skee Ball skills.
I challenged my oldest to a game.
I creamed her.
She challenged me to a rematch.
Challenge accepted.
I creamed her again.
We went on in this fashion for about fifteen games. Then the unthinkable happened. It kills me to admit this but my oldest beat me. Ugh. She didn't beat me by much, but a loss is a loss. So I did what all great moms do: I congratulated her on her win through clenched teeth then I sat and sulked at a table until it was time to leave for our hair appointment.
No. Not really. I did do some sulking, but it was all internal. I hate to lose, but even I am not a sore enough of a loser to publicly sulk at Chuck E. Cheese.
While waiting for my kids to cash in their tickets for fabulous prizes, I did notice that my Skee Ball rolling arm was sore. Really sore. I could hardly lift my arm high enough to Instagram my photo of the result of the first Skee Ball match of the day.
I wasn't quite sure what to do since it's been so long since I've had a sports related injury. After much thought (and a quick Google search), ice seemed to be the way to go.
Upon arrival, the lovely receptionist at the hair salon asked me if I wanted anything. I'm sure she meant a can of Diet Coke or a glass of wine, but I asked her for a baggie of ice for my Skee Ball arm.
There I sat. In the hair salon waiting area with a baggie of ice on my Skee Ball arm demanding a rematch with my oldest just as soon as I recovered from my injury.
I'm some kind of Wonder Mom.
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