Screaming Mimi's

Last night was the first time I went out with a friend for dinner since Little Homie was born. After the disaster at Rite Aide I was eager to redeem myself in public. I'm due for a come-back.

So, I squeezed into my trusty Spanx, shimmied into my favourite pair of jeans, put on a real bra, my favorite black lace tanktop, and my street-walker boots. I busted out the heavy artillery from my makeup arsenal -- Benefit Erase Paste to hide the sleepless nights from beneath my eyes, Origins Pinch Your Cheeks to brighten my puff-pasty face, Bare Escentuals mascara to add a little drama. I even spritzed my pulse points with Hanae Mori eau de parfum. Hey, it was Saturday night, and this is LA.

As eager as I was to put my boobs away for once, and get the hell out of the house go out for a couple of hours, I still have a lot of guilt over leaving my babies. While Little Homie is pretty oblivious, M has been kind of needy lately. Maybe it's because she was sick, or maybe it's because she's pissed off that we haven't taken Little Homie back to wherever it was he came from already, but she's been more clingy and whiny than usual. While she loves playing with her Aba (dad) and Savta (gramma), when she's tired or frustrated or sad she inevitably cries for Mama.

And I hate not being there when she needs me.

Still, I knew that both the babes were in great hands, and so, with a lump in my throat, and my cellphone set to the loudest possible ring tone just in case, I left.

Once I got in the car and blasted gangsta rap, I felt much better.

Dinner was delicious, and I had a great time with my friend. While we were waiting for the check, B called.

When most people answer the phone, they say "Hello" or "Hi" or some variation on that theme. When B's home with the kids and calls me, I say "What's wrong?" or "What happened?"

I could hear M howling like a cracked-out banshee.

"Hey, Little Homie is still sleeping, but I just wanted to ask you to bring Mimi in from the car when you get home," B shouted over our baby girl's cries.

"Is she ok?" I asked, my heart staggering.

"I think she misses you." He answered. The man has a way with words.

Fuck. She wanted me, and I wasn't there.

And, to make things more dire, her beloved "Mimi" (the love-worn Minnie Mouse stuffed doll she cherished dearly) was sitting in our car.

Not only was there no mama, there was no Mimi. Double fuck.

Never has a waiter taken such a long ass time to bring a check. As I felt the minutes pass, my stomach clenched and my pulse tripped in time with my racing thoughts. I pictured my sweet baby girl, covered in snot and tears, cataclysmic with a misery that only years of intensive psychological therapy could fix, wondering why Mama wasn't there to make it better.

Once I signed the credit card receipt, I bolted out of the restaurant so fast I knocked a chair over. In my high heel hooker boots, I ran to the car, clippity cloopping like a drunken horse, boobs bouncing against my chin, covered in sweat. I raced home like a Nascar Driver on amphetamines, ignoring the good intentions of yellow lights and stop signs.

I peeled into the drive way, grabbed Mimi from the back seat and raced into the house.

"Look who's home!" I heard B say, as M rounded the corner to meet me.

Her face was swollen from crying, her hair matted and tangled from the sheer exertion of her sadness. Teardrops glittered from her eyelashes like tiny stars. But, as soon as she saw me, a smile stretched across her face. She reached her pudgy hands toward me, as I bent down to hug her.

Then, she pushed my arm away, reaching instead for Minnie Mouse.

"Mimi! Mimi!" She said, grabbing the stuffed doll and hugging it with a powerful fierceness.

"What the hell is this Mimi crap? What about Mama!" I said to B. He shrugged, M kissed Mimi, and Little Homie woke up from his power nap, hungry. Again. Well, too bad Mimi doesn't breastfeed, otherwise I might actually be able to leave the house with a little less guilt, and drive home without risking my life.