Excerpts from Are You There, God? It’s Me, Momgret
I’ve had 963 periods and I’m kind of over it.
Are you there, God? It’s me. I used to have a name — Margot? Margarine? Munchkin? — but everyone just calls me Mom now. Teachers. Cashiers. Firefighters dousing the microwave someone used to cook plastic dinosaurs.
I know there are lots of moms, so you can call me Momgret. Do you hear from Mommifers and Momthanys and Momshleys? Do they talk to you while scraping glitter slime out of a toddler’s hair, too?
Can you create a special kind of bad place for the people who invented play slime?
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Are you there, God? It’s me, Momgret. I saw Gretchen with Nancy and Janie at the playground today. Last week, I was part of their secret club, but then Janie found out the ants-on-a-log I made for our kids were regular old celery, not organic, and store-brand sunflower butter. With real chocolate chips, not carob.
She snatched them away like they were poison, and before I could stop myself I called her a judgy bitch.
It’s not so much I like her as a person, God, but as a mom she’s very popular.
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I like clean hair, food that isn’t in nugget form, the smell of fresh laundry I didn’t wash, and things that aren’t pink and glitter-coated. I have not experienced any of these things in the past two years.
I hate pimples (which it’s unfair that I still get), baked potatoes (not keto), when my mother’s mad (because I took 45 minutes to text her back about clearance at Chico’s), and spirit days at my children’s school.
Janie made her daughter’s hair look like soda pouring out of a bottle for Crazy Hair Day. I made my daughter’s hair into a ponytail because I forgot it was Crazy Hair Day. She’s still crying.
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I must — I must — I must increase my lust. The thought of being within 100 yards of a reproductive organ makes me want to coat myself in rancid play slime.
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Are you there, God? It’s me, Momgret. All through supper I thought about how I was going to tell my mother I just want to wear yoga pants, and to stop giving me her…
