They say your spirituality grows with motherhood. That’s true. I find myself praying a lot more these days, even in public places. The prayer usually starts out like: Dear God, Please let Ethan stay asleep.
Amen.
Recently I said this prayer over and over again while toting my little man snuggled in his car seat as we ventured to renew my driver’s license. It had expired the previous week and in all the baby hubbub, I’d forgotten to get it renewed.
I walked into the “driver’s service facility” only about an hour after it opened and it looked like a scene out of The Walking Dead. It was eerily quiet and some people had that filmy gray coloring that zombies so love to sport along with the vacant look in their eyes. Other people had clothes that were so crumpled, it was clear they’d slept in them. Just how long had these folks been here? It just was 9:30 a.m. on a Tuesday.
The zombie behind the counter assigned me a number and nodded to my still-sleeping Ethan that there was no need to worry, I shouldn’t have to wait long. I wondered if I had a panicked Please-Stay-Asleep look on my face.
Sitting there, rocking the carseat to maintain his unconsciousness, I looked around. One woman had on hooker heels (you know the clear kind) and smeared red lipstick. One dude with matted hair was slouched so low, I couldn’t tell where the chair began and he ended. Don’t these people know they’ll probably have to have their picture taken and it’ll be immortalized in their wallets for at least four years? That’s when it hit me. Crap. I too look like crap!
I frantically searched my purse for make-up. Foundation, lipstick, mascara _ none of it could be found. I was considering trying to work some magic with one of Logan’s crayons when I found my MAC lip liner. That and some chapstick were better than nothing.
Then my number was called. I glanced down at Ethan. Yep, still asleep. Thank you, God. The beefy, tattooed Neo-Nazi behind the counter pleasantly asked me for my paperwork. He was nice enough not to bat an eye when I lied about my weight. I prayed he wouldn’t send me to have my picture taken, but no such luck. I schlepped over to the picture-taking holding pen.
I waited for my close up, and briefly considered striking a Janis Dickinson-like pose.
But wisely decided against it. The click of the camera woke my boy. Dang, and I almost made it.
When I took my wailing baby out of the carseat, the holding pen of zombies began to say “awwww” and I believe I heard some coo-ing too. The Poindexter behind the counter turned to Ethan and said: “I’m sorry Mister but you’re not old enough to get your license.”
The holding pen howled with laughter. I politely smiled, calmed Ethan down and grabbed my new license from the clerk. Praise God, the picture wasn’t too scary after all.
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