Naptime: Best Laid Plans

It’s 11:59 AM: I close the door to my son’s room. I know I have about an hour to get all the things done, but if I get even half of my list crossed off while he sleeps, I’ll be golden. But first, I pop into the bathroom because I’ve had to pee for, like, two hours.

Noon: In the bathroom, out of habit, I open Facebook on my phone. I start scrolling, then click away to a short article on eye creams. When I’m back on my feed, I notice a post from a woman in one of my mom groups — she thinks her husband is cheating! I start down a rabbit hole of profile-stalking. But I know I have to stop. I have things to do and I decide it’s not worth it. I’m really proud of myself at this point.

12:12 PM: After setting my phone down, I’m washing my face when I notice what feels like a freaking twig growing out of my jawline. I grab at it and realize it’s a whisker. A WHISKER. LIKE MY GRANDMA USED TO HAVE. What the hell?! I try to grab at it and it keeps slipping out of my grip. I grab my tweezers from the medicine cabinet. I point my chin to the mirror, locate the prickly offender with one thumb, and grab it with my tweezers. A giant blonde whisker with a black follicle slides out on the first try. Where did it come from? And how did I not notice it before today? Is this normal? Am I going through early menopause? How many people have already seen this whisker? The answers to these questions are very important to me but also at the same time who cares, because that was kind of satisfying. No, it was really satisfying.

12:15 PM: I carefully transfer my extraction onto a single square of toilet paper, set it on the side of the tub, then take a picture (it’s really hard to see the whisker, tho) and text it to my sister. “I just pulled this giant whisker out of my chin. I’m basically Grandma Freda. WTF?!”

12:16 PM: I Google “chin whiskers on women” and skim a Cosmo article that has me convinced I may very well be going through early menopause.

12:18 PM: My sister texts me back: “I’ve had one in the same spot for years!” I want to ask her more, but I know that if I write her back now, we’ll text forever, so I don’t reply. I still have a solid 45 minutes to return emails, pay that overdue pediatrician’s bill (that they somehow only manage to call me about when I’m on a work call or dealing with a screaming baby), start a load of laundry, and try to get my printer working so I can send back the shapewear I ordered off of Amazon when I was up nursing at 3 am. It had great reviews, but the only thing it really does is shift my muffin top up about eight inches.

12:19 PM: Before I can leave the bathroom I have to spend another minute or so searching my chin for more whiskers. None found.

12:21 PM: The pediatrician’s billing office calls. I answer. It’s a miracle! I explain to the woman on the other end that I really haven’t been ignoring them. She’s very nice about it and I ask her to stay on the line because I just want to give her a card and get it taken care of now, and I explain that by the way, in the future, email is actually a better way to reach me. But, shoot. Where is my purse? I tell her I know exactly where it is (I don’t) while I’m speed-tiptoeing around the house frantically trying to find it. I look everywhere then remember it’s in my son’s room, next to his changing table. When we got home from Target earlier, I carried him and the diapers straight into his room and set my purse down as I unloaded everything. “I’m so sorry. I’m going to have to call you back. But I will this time, I promise.” (I probably won’t. She’s going to have to call me 17 more times before she reaches me. God, I hope this doesn’t go into collection. And why am I the one who always has to take care of this stuff? Why don’t they call my husband? I hate everything.)

12:27 PM: I’m on my way into my office to return emails when I catch sight of the dirty dishes left over from last night. And also breakfast. Also lunch. I know that if I ignore the dishes now, it’s really going to stress me out when I’m trying to make dinner. I decide that if I get everything clean now, I won’t be as stressed later. Yes. This is a good plan.

12:43 PM: The kitchen is clean (enough) and I head into my office to return at least the more urgent emails while I still have a chance. But actually, I think I might know what’s wrong with the printer so I’m just gonna…

12:56 PM: I finally give up and decide to just request a return label from Amazon. I want to go all Office Space on this printer (seriously, how has printer technology not improved since 1999?) but that would wake up the baby and obviously I need more time!

12:57 PM: Just as I open my laptop, I hear my son cry out for me. I did not accomplish a single thing on my list. But goddammit, extracting that whisker was satisfying. I hope it comes back soon.



Emily Farris lives in Kansas City, MO with her burly husband, toddler son, and two rowdy rescue mutts. She's written for Bon Appetit, Food & Wine, and The Cut. When not busy cleaning up somebody's pee, she's posting about drinks and home decor on Instagram @theboozybungalow.