Are you my mother?

I exercised today, which is french for: I showered.

Le sigh.

At the risk of being graphic, allow me to paint a picture for you. I removed my pajamas at 2:00pm, showered, and put my pajamas back on. Whatever, I don't care. Then I began the exhausting task of brushing my hair, which is when I was interrupted by the doorbell. Who could it be? I wondered, shamed to be caught in my jim-jams (British for pajamas) well after lunch time.

I considered ignoring the door. I considered putting on a bra. I answered the door.

Is Taquisha here? The lost child asked.
What? No. *smile* No Taquisha here. Sorry... I answered.
...OK.

At which point I expected the little girl standing on our cock-eyed doormat to leave. No Taquisha, no dice. End of transaction. But she leaned there for a moment longer, suspended between her left foot which was leaving and her two eyes which were staring at me.

Could she see right through me? Did she know I had eaten both a cinnamon raisin bagel AND an ice cream sandwich for breakfast? I saw her brain, framed in puff-ball pigtails, perceive the situation and she pitied me. The damp, shaggy woman, with no Taquisha to call her own.