Editor’s Note: This article contains coarse language some readers may find offensive.
Serena had just put her son to bed when she looked in the mirror. Not just a regular mirror… a magnifying mirror.
And that’s when my inner Katy Perry kicked in, all, “You’re gonna hear me roar!” in regards to my Chewbacca face and self-care.
As the self-described “domestic hot mess” explained:
Once my son went to bed, I was gonna treat the f**k outta myself. At home, of course, because I’m a mom and we ain’t got no time for the spa.
Yeah, buddy. I was gonna flip this flop. Trick this ride. Rub the lotion on its skin. Do all of the things.
Serena hoped that in no time she would shed her weary, hairy cocoon and emerge a beautiful mother butterfly.
First on the list? Facial hair:
I attack every stray eyebrow and mustache hair with my tweezers, but as soon as I get one, it’s like 10 sprout out, so I call it good.
As she analyzed each individual hair follicle her attention was then drawn to another teensy weensy detail — her pores.
Having just picked up some trendy Korean face masks from the local Walgreens, the eager mom decided it was the perfect opportunity to use them.
How "Treat yo self"-ing goes as a mom:It all started when I was giving my son a bath and got my hands on my magnifying…
That’s when her son interrupted her at-home spa-ing for the first time:
So, I’m Silence of the Lambs-ing my face when I hear a voice, “Can I try on that mask?” it’s my son, who’s supposed to be asleep.
“No, sweetie. Go to bed,” I say all sweet, like Snow White.
Serena continued scanning the rest of her body. “What now?” She asked. Then she remembered she had just purchased two handfuls of bath accessories:
A few months ago, I learned that bath bombs were very on trend, and after watching a million stupid videos of grown women in bathtubs submerging magical bath bombs that do things like turn the water black, change colors, turn into flowers, give you pony rides, and sparkle, I’m all about it. I like shiny things. I’m like a raccoon. Bought 10.
As soon as she turned on the water her son came in again. Asking if he had to take another bath, Serena assured the tiny tot the water in the tub was not for him:
“No, mommy’s taking a bath. You need. To. Go. To. Sleep. Okay, bub?” I say like Caillou’s mom. Nice, but you know she’s on the verge of absolutely losing her s**t. I’d totally tune-in for an episode like that.
“Okay,” her son said, as he retreated off to bed.
With the water running and her son presumably (hopefully) back in bed, Serena proceeded to glide into the tub. But her trial bath bomb left her feeling a little less than… zen:
I strip down and try to contort my grown a*s inside our standard, non-HGTV’ed tub, grab my glittery bath bomb and let it sink. It smells like mermaid queefs and turns the bath water blue. Then the sparkles. My GOD, the sparkles. This is magical. Until I notice the glitter is beginning to stick to my skin. Because this bath bomb has fancy unicorn hoof oils in it or some crap like that. I’m greasy and glittery. My labes and b******e probably look like a vampire from Twilight, Mardi Gras edition. I can’t relax. I don’t do sticky.
I need this off.
Not only was she sticky from head-to-toe and covered in glitter, her son was back. Again. And this time he noticed the “magical” water that he had never seen during his bath time before:
“HOW DID YOU MAKE THE WATER BLUE!? I WANT A BLUE BATH!” S**ts**ts**t! I can kiss ever getting my child to sleep again goodbye now that he thinks cool stuff like rainbow baths go down after bedtime.
“I’ll give you whatever colored bath you want. Sweet Jesus. Go to bed!” I say like Stewart’s mom from SNL. But he just stands there, sensing my weakness, like a predator. He knows I’m of an advanced age and am bathing in oily, sparkly stripper juice and can’t get out to hog wrangle his a*s to bed without busting a hip and starring in an unintentional Life Alert commercial.
Eventually, Serena coaxed her son back to his room and decided to scrub off the glittery residue from her failed attempt at a soak. But one more problem lurked around the corner — well, in the cabinet:
I get out and…no towel.
Serena stood there, soaking wet, while she contemplated her next move:
WTF is wrong with me? I can remember the 1,003 items I need to take with me on an outing with my son, but I can’t remember a towel.
Out of options, Serena embarked on what she described as the “no towel walk of shame”:
You know the one. One arm covering both areolas, one hand clutching my vagina like she’s gonna fall off and run away, make sure the coast is clear, and do a sprint-shuffle down the hall.
The anxiety-inducing episode left Serena in a huff and aware more than ever of why she doesn’t “treat” herself to luxurious pampering sessions at home.
As the slick, dripping wet mom explained:
I find a towel, wrap it around myself, and am panting. What a complete s**t show. I’m more exhausted and more stressed than I was before I decided to commit to this at-home spa night(mare) gone ever so wrong.
Adding: “This is why moms don’t treat themselves.”