Dear Mac

Dear Mac,
Really? I saw you. I was looking out the window. I witnessed your practically gleeful jump from the roaring recycling truck. I saw you smile a bit after you emptied the bin and tossed it carelessly into the driveway again.
Do you mind me calling you Mac? That is what I imagine your name to be, it may be cliché, do hope you don’t mind.
As you could surely tell from the flattened Midol box and mountain of Hershey’s foil wrappers, this has been a tough week. Endless hours of laundry and I still found time to separate the plastics from the cardboard. I didn’t leave a drop in those bottles of wine. I left them bone dry and ready to recycle. That is not easy to do while breast feeding Mac, but I did it. For you. And for what? I imagined myself going out and moving the empty bin to the side before I drove off to the grocery store, but it slipped my mind somewhere between diaper changes and mother/daughter cookie consumption negotiations. Have you even been in talks with a four year old Mac? It’s a pressure cooker in there.
We emerged from the house a few hours later covered in breakfast, trailing coupons and cheerios. I wrangled my three precious darlings into the van. I slammed it into reverse just as my tiniest little lamb exploded in angry pleas begging for freedom from the straps. I can drive with sippy cups flying at my skull, with a latte in one hand and a play date schedule in the other, but NO, I couldn’t miss that bin.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if the one surviving corner of the bin had not clung to the axel as I barreled through our subdivision blasting Kiddie Bop 2000 out the window. I looked nuts Mac and I don’t need much help in that department these days.
Anyway, Mac, could you send me another recycling bin? Bill me separately again.
My husband is still under the impression that I am a super mamma by day/ diva by night. Let’s not spoil it, shall we Mac?

Wishes,
Neena