You *just* want to shave your legs.

Let me set this up for you:

{Imagine that like things go black and then there is like a stage and then like a big light goes "Ka-Cha" and a spot light appears. Enter -Moi-}

[Also, pretend that I am a sultry narrator and a really really good voice actor. You're the best <3 )

Not only do you work five hours a day as the hottest chick in your friggin place of employment, but you are also a cook, a maid, a surgeon for every stuffed animal in the tri-city area, a search and rescue squad for lost keys; socks; pants; sanity, and so on and so forth. Now in the wee moments between 'stuffing-their-faces-with-food' and 'disregarding-the-option-of-clubbing-them-in-the-head-to-make-them-go-sleepy-time' you have just enough time to rinse the day's sweat off of your totally sexy body. Yes. This is a precious time. The moments creep on into talking TV sheep time. You have 22 minutes to shower off 'yo stank' and, heck, that leaves you 20 minutes to shave your legs. This is the time in a young mother's life that fireworks should go off. :3

Now, like a wild lady whose clothes are on fire, you leap out of those nasty clothes. The water temperature is perfection in liquid form. All the items are there: soap, razor and water. (Sometimes when you've splurged the 3-in-1 soap/shampoo/conditioner stuff. It's like a shower in a bottle.)  You can hear the sheepy music of the telly and the baby is audible as well. From a room away, over the rushing water and even over the bleeting sheep you can hear him whipping around what *sounds* like cars across your newly clean floors.

"HEY! EASY IN THERE!" You yell...delicately.

Sweat is successfully off the body. Goal One Complete. You are a Goddess. You are bathing in a warm tub filled with ambrosia (well, 'yo stank') and as you scan your water palace...you notice a looker-on.

"Mama chower?" - {Translation - Mother, while I have noticed you have gone into the bathroom after announcing you were going to 'take a bath', I am aghast. Are you, in fact, at this moment, taking a shower?)

To which you eloquently reply:

Get out.

Back to the life of luxury, you soap up your legs and ready your weapon -that almost rusty razor-, your muscles releasing intense violence for all men and manly garments, you hear a loud crash with lots of little "pitter-pitter-pitters-splash-trample" and such.

Oh. My. Lawd-in-Hebben. If that was the millions of polished stones you just picked up, even the clandestine jerks that hid in the crevices of the couches, your mind could quite possibly explode. At least you won't have to clean it up.

"PICK THOSE UP!" - The Goddess from the bathroom shouts...oh, that's you shouting btw. You think, just one moment. Just a small collection of twenty two minutes of solitude and satisfaction...of just peace and quiet. (You can feel that wrinkle in your forehead just gloat). You can hear the remainder of whatever was left of a 'clean' living room being destroyed. You can also feel the temp of the water rising. Nay, you can *see* the steam you are causing by the anger inside you. The razor sweeps expertly down your leg. Schoo-Schoo-Schoo- You have enough control over body and mind to be all like:

"CAN YOU PLEASE JUST BE QUIET FOR TWO MINUTES?!"

That was a desperate move. They can smell desperation. You stop shaving. They can sense movement too. In one pinched second you begin to lift yourself -fumbling with the soapiness of the make-shift shaving cream called "Dove"- from the sheath of happiness (or tub) when you realize...silence....and it's not a trick. The sheepy is still singing on the telly but there is a halt on the destruction of your 600 sq ft apt. (IDK if that's true. In my mind 600 sounds really good when spoken aloud - 'specially in the awesome voice you've imagine. Bravo, you.)

Serenity. Warmth. Happiness....for two full minutes....

ohholycrapthebabyhaschokedonthosedamnpebbles!

You shoot up from the tub racing the two leaps it takes to reach the living room, sliding on linolium, stepping on sharp devil toys, *just* to see your happy baby sitting peacefully watching Sheepy TV.

"Mama owie." He points out. -Translation: Mother, I notice you have a wound. Look where I am pointing.-

Yes, young mother, you have shaved a third of a leg and scalped (applicable in this situation? I'm not sure, but, dude, fersrsly whatevs.) the rest of your hard working left right leg. The left leg pristinely covered in patches of hair. Oh yeah, baby, you shave a leg.