Buttopolis

I have chronic insomnia, and yesterday I was sleep-deprived to the point of misery. I proposed to the children after Lucy's dance class that "Mommy take a nap!" and the children try to play quietly. This was viewed with suspicion and unhappiness, as each child felt evidently that she was not safe from the other without the active supervision of the Drunken Housewife. I overruled their misgivings, undressed, and climbed into bed.

I was just drifting off when suddenly five year-old Lucy burst out into the sort of hysterical sobbing that can probably be detected by orbiting satellites. I called Lucy to come tell me what happened. Between her sobs, she managed to get a few words out. Tragedy had struck! Lucy had set down a lemon tartlet which she'd been carrying about and slowly nibbling upon, and a cat licked it! The lemon tartlet in question had been the subject of much angst over the preceding week, as dumb old Mommy had committed a crime against humanity by buying Iris a lemon tartlet while Lucy was in dance class. Never mind that I bought Lucy a cupcake and that I had thought the lemon tarts were too tangy for her; Lucy had become obsessed with that lemon tart consumed by her eternal enemy, Iris, and now that finally she had gotten one of her own, a cat had licked it. I explained to Lucy that cat germs are not so dangerous to people as other people's germs and that, in my opinion, she could safely finish her lemon tartlet.

Lucy went back downstairs, where she discovered that while she had been telling me that a cat had licked her lemon tartlet, another villainous cat had eaten the whole lemon filling. This is what comes of leaving pastries unchaperoned. Lucy's grief and rage were epic, and I got out of bed and abandoned the prospect of a nap. I actually had a beautiful cupcake on hand, purchased because there was a possibility one of Lucy's friends would be coming over who could not be expected to eat a lemoncentric treat, and I gave this to Lucy, but it gave her no consolation. Lucy waved the empty lemon tart shell about, crying, and Iris asked for permission to eat this defiled shell. ("Those lemon tarts are so good," said Iris later, "that I didn't mind Lucy germs AND cat germs").

I should have gone back to the bakery for another one, but my fatigue had grown to the point where driving felt unsafe. I was supposed to drive Iris to a friend's for a sleepover, but I didn't feel safe behind the wheel. I instructed Iris to call her friend to tell her that she wouldn't be there until evening, when the Sober Husband would return from work and could safely drive her. Faced with crabby children, one continually bursting into noisy, lemon tart-related tears, but physically and mentally exhausted, I fell back upon an old diversion I had used for Iris when she was a toddler. I told the children that they could add to Mommy's tattoos. (The children love Mommy's tattoos and take it for granted that they will get some as well. Lucy has become a bit worried, though, since she learned that tattoos are painful. "When I am a woman and I get a tattoo," she said recently, "isn't there a way without a needle?")

They spent all afternoon drawing all over my arms and legs. At first, they had high-minded artistic goals. Iris practiced writing "Iris" in kanji, and Lucy drew a rainbow. Soon, however, it deteriorated. One of them drew a butt, and then both decided what would truly be nice would be if they covered me in pictures of butts. My left leg was renamed "Buttopolis" and my right leg "Butt Heaven." The height of wit was reached when Lucy drew a butt which had evidently just released some foul gas, as a fairy princess passing by was depicted with an expression of disgust.

"Why don't you draw some flowers?" I suggested, a bit tired of the nonstop butt humor. "I will draw a butt with flowers coming out of it!" Lucy said cheerfully.