Who Names The Colors

This Is Not A Pipe

"Where are you?" Jo texts Ethan again.

"Mom, it's handled, get ready." She gets an unreasonable 15 minutes later while she paces her bathroom and checks on what Zoe is destroying three times. She had convinced herself that this was a very important situation and Ethan had said he was coming home. Audrey is busy and it's not one of Colin's appointed visitation times, so she knows not to ask him. Plus, after that comment about her ass in her yoga pants over two weeks ago, Jo has no interest in inviting him into her life, let alone her dating life.

Jo needs someone she can trust because Zoe is a threenager if she has ever seen one. That little girl was full of opinions she couldn't quite express and that huge influx of hormones she was getting about now, that Jo had heard was unmet in females again until puberty, made her full of feelings. Zoe insisted on expressing loudly. She was a handful right now, even for Jo. Ethan may have had days like this, but the blur of parenting in her chaotic early 20's had dulled the memory. Or, thankfully, her challenging child came when she was more prepared for her. In any case, her pint sized wonder had an attitude to outmatch a cast member on Made in Chelsea and was just as unreasonable.

Zoe also needed constant supervision at the moment. Jo was currently in the practice of knowing where she was in their house at all times and what weapons of minor destruction were at her disposal too. This had been brewing for some time, but it had become necessary for a normal sense of peace of mind starting about a week ago.

Jo had been working on grading her 2nd year technique submissions while watching her Sunday roast and decidedly not thinking about the shape of Harry's lips or ass or how he had surpassed her in his technique and innovation as an artist and how she admired him, when she realized that she didn't really know where her three year old was in the house at the moment. More worryingly, she had not heard a high pitched peep, let alone a squeal in too long. Jo dropped the iPad she had collected her submission's on, including the piece Harry had sent after their frustrating meeting the other day, the one she mentally referred to as "Jo in the moon" and made her way to the play area. It was empty of life though the trail of destruction was clear. Jo cleared up five toys, as she tried to do in every room Zoe had wrecked, before checking her bedroom, again bereft, and the bathroom, also clear. 

She heard a chatter in her own bathroom then and wanted to freeze. The other day she had found that Zoe had billy goat-ed her way on to the counter from the toilet back and had crossed to the medicine cabinet where Jo safely kept her razor, or so She thought. This time the razor was not the problem. Instead, Zoe had found her way to the medicine cabinet and other trouble. In an effort to make herself feel better about being a woman in charge of her own destiny who made choices that were best for her, even if not what she wanted, Jo had recently sprung for the Ruby Woo Lippy instead of the Rimmel #1 she usually purchased.

So, of course, Zoe had found it and painted herself with it. The red stick had gone a long way, Jo imagined she could have had it for years, because there was enough of it to cover Zoe from her knees to her collarbones and beyond, including cold straight horizontal lines for eyebrows like she was Anger in Inside Out. Her daughter had taken one look from her place on the ruined bath mat, seen Jo's incensed face, a less animated personification of anger and tried to run to hug off her mum's rage. Jo, like any good mother in her best work clothes, stiff armed her like an American football player, and stripped herself before depositing a crying and sorry Zoe into a bath.

Jo had immediately called her friend Cidra with a glass of wine in hand. She could see her daughter was safe, but was far enough away to just watch. Jo needed to find the funny in the situation, as soon as possible, and Cidra would help. Because it was funny, Jo knew, even when it was your lipstick and your bath mat and your child. Cidra had laughed her ass off for minutes and convinced Jo to take pictures of the remnants of the waxy red dye all over Zoe. She had also declared that Jo desperately needed a night out, and "some dick to wind you down, god you are wound up tighter than my mother in law's arsehole." This and the 10 minutes since disaster had Jo laughing to.