I swore I wouldn't share this with anyone, and here I am about to blog about it. I'm a sucker for a funny story.
It happened the week before Christmas. My house was a wreck. The kids were a wreck. I was the biggest wreck. No make up. Still in pajama pants and a sweat shirt. Scary. So very scary.
I had just taken Jeb to the potty when the doorbell rang. I wanted to ignore it, but I have frosted glass on the front door. Whoever it was must have already spotted the girls who were being much too loud in the living room. I had no choice. I left Jeb to finish his big boy business and went to answer the door.
Half way there, I remembered how hideous I looked. Again, I wanted to ignore the door, but by this time, the girls were screaming, "Mama! Somebody's at the door!" at 989 decibels.
Really? Thanks, girls.
So I swallowed my pride and opened the door to find a delivery guy standing there with a package. I tried to play it cool and made a pitiful excuse for my scary appearance and my disaster of a house. By this time the girls are standing on either side of me in their crazy-hair, 1/2 pjs 1/2 normal clothes, orphan-like state, staring at the poor guy like they haven't seen another human being in months, drooling at the package in his hand. If he wasn't terrified at that point, he should have been.
I signed the little thingy as fast as I could, handed it back to him, and... this is when it really goes downhill... I handed it back to him and said, "Tico."
Tico. Never heard that word? Oh, maybe because it's not really a word. It's a character on Dora the Explorer. Explanation: When Belle was teeny tiny, she LOVED Dora. And for some reason, her word for "thank you" was "tico." She said "tico" for years, and it just stuck with us. So from time to time, instead of "thank you" we say, "tico." But. Not. To. Strangers. Delivering. Packages.
The poor man did a double take at me after the word came out of my mouth. I wanted to turn back time and somehow reel it back in, but it was too late. I started to at least attempt an explanation when Jeb came running out the bathroom, thinking someone he knew was there. He busted out of the front door at the guy and stopped dead in his tracks. Dead in his COMPLETELY NAKED tracks. Oh yes. My son was fresh off the potty with not a stitch on.
The guy just laughed, but I'm pretty sure it was a desperate attempt not to scream. I told him, "bye," but what I really wanted to say was, "It's ok to run."
I scooped Jeb up, escaped back into the house as fast as I could, and locked the door behind us. If delivery people have a little black book where they flag people as "crazy," make no mistake... I have been flagged.
And just when I thought it couldn't get worse, as I was putting Jeb's pants back on, he looked at me and smiles, then says, "Mommy, you a printhess." I gave him a big hug. I totally needed to hear that I was a princess. I told him, "thank you" and then, from the couch, I hear Belle say, "He means your crown."
I feel on top of my head and pull off a plastic, purple, feathery, bejeweled tiara. I barely remembered when Jeb put it there while I was talking on the phone earlier that morning. Awwwwwwe. Some.
And here's what I told God.... "God, If I were a prideful person, I would totally understand that lesson. Maybe learn from it even. But since I'm NOT... I'm pretty sure You just needed the laugh."
But I guess if there IS a moral to be found to my story it would be... even when I look like a mess to the world, I'm still a princess to my son. That's a pretty big honor. Maybe the biggest. Tico, Jeb. Tico.