(aka Mother's Day remorse -- a semi-fictional tale with sincere apologies to Eric Carle)
In the light of the moon, a little mama lay awake in bed with night sweats and no sign of relief,
(Probably hotflashes. We don't have a ceiling fan and refuse to start the A/C in May.)
Sunday morning, the warm sun came up and PLOP! Out of the bed rolled a very tired and very hungry Yomamapillar.
She started to look for some food.
At 9am, she ate one plate of egg whites and toast. But she was still hungry.
At 10am, she ate two bowls of Cocoa Puffs. But she was still hungry.
At 11:30am, she finally hit the showers, drank three sips of water and bolted out the door to the Farmer's Market. She was still hungry.
At noon, she inhaled four pieces of warm pita bread, crushed lentil soup, a chicken shawarma salad sandwich, mango juice and the rest of her kids' french fries. But she was still hungry.
At 2pm, she ate through five pieces of homemade chocolate cake. But she was still hungry.
(It was really two, but if you go by serving size, definitely five.)
That evening, she had one Bud Light, one cheeseburger, onion rings, more chocolate cake and several spoonfuls of ice cream.
That night, she had a stomach-ache, incredible remorse and an even bigger muffin top.
The next day was Monday. The Yomamapillar, determined to get back on the right path, ate through a nice, green salad. After that, she felt much better.
But now she wasn't hungry anymore -- and she wasn't a little Yomamapillar anymore. She was a big, bloated Yomamapillar. (Crap. Why do we do this to ourselves?)
Freaked out, she vowed not to leave the house for more than two weeks. Then (most probably because she was hungry again and out of food) she pushed her way out ... hit Nordstroms ... bought more sensible pants and A-line tops ... camouflaged the mama roll ... and became a beautiful fly mama again. (Or so she thinks...)
The End.
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