Mascara stains. Everywhere. I knew I never should have purchased those white Egyptian cotton sheets; my pillowcase was now covered in deep-brown MAX Factor mascara. What to tell my husband?: I was eating chocolate covered strawberries. Guitly pleasure. Oops.
I don't know why I was so ashamed to admit I cry. My five year old daugther did it all of the time without so much as a blush from embarrasment. I pictured Jessica falling off of her bike. Cry. Breaking her Barbie Corvette. Cry. Losing to her father in Monopoly. Wailingggg cry.
I knew that I would have to break Jessi of that sometime. And soon. I don't know how much more crying I can take. Five year olds don't have anything to cry about, I thought. All they have to worry about is learning the alphabet, singing stupid songs, and making their parents miserable.
I gasped in what seemed as pain, and a sob escaped my lips; Oh my God, I am a terrible mother. I hate my child. I hate my child, and here I sit, crying because I envy my five year old child, her innocence, her radiant face.
I wiped the mascara and tears from my own, rubbing my eyes much too rough. I would avoid the mirror. At all costs, I must avoid the mirror. What a hateful contraption it was. Whomever invented it should be thrown into the bowels of Hell.
Clean yourself up. Make yourself presentable for Mark. He'll be home soon. And he will want dinner. Eye drops to get rid of your awful bloodshot eyes. Coverup to conceal dark circles beneath my drooped eyelids. And more mascara. There, like new. All done without a mirror.
Just a day in the life.
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