When I was a young mother of four children under the age of five I considered starting a support group. I would have called it M.A.P.S., Mothers Against Pre-Schoolers. Any woman who felt she fit could join for free.
I imagined we would hold meetings in a bar, maybe one that featured male dancers. The kids would stay home with dad. The entire evening would be his responsibility. We (me and all the other mothers in my group) would not prepare dinner. Maybe set out a box of Cheerios and a line of sippy cups full of Juicy Juice, but no more. It'd be against the rules. We would leave the house without logging written directions on how to bathe the kids or reminder notes of what to do In Case of An Emergency. We wouldn't care if the dog was let out or the cat was fed. Come six o'clock we would simply leave. Walk out the door, no looking back, primed with red lipstick, smelling like a two-dollar whore, wearing spiked heels that'd grown dusty in the detritus at the bottom of the closet. We wouldn't care if we looked trashy in painted-on blue jeans or if our dark roots were showing. Meeting night was the night to let it all hang out, become who we fantasized about being on every other noisy, sticky, chaotic, smeared, poopy, pukey, dirty, I'm-too-tired-to-have-sex-tonight night.
I laughed harder than I've laughed in a long time over this one. Go read the rest of it and laugh, too.