Value wIT

The first three years of my children’s preschool world put me in direct contact with MissingThePoint Mom.  This is the first year since my child was three-years old that I have had the luxury of being free from MissingThePoint Mom.  However, in an ironic twist, once again life placed me in her path.

Actually, MissingThePoint Mom is nice, and most likely she has a good heart.  If she weren’t so off, she could be tolerable.  However, her priorities and decisions epitomize the reason for Value wIT’s existence. MissingThePoint Mom is the core of why I want to move away from America.

To provide a flavor of MissingThePoint Mom, recall the time I went to her gigantic house to retrieve my child from a playdate. Ding-donging the doorbell of her castle, I peered through the glass doors to notice the soulless furnishings and the almost complete absence of décor – even the landscape lacked personality. A $4 million shell that is empty on the inside (foreshadowing.)

MissingThePoint Mom answers the door in some type of dancewear involving a Lycra “car-wash” style skirt and tights. Her hair is damp hair slicked back with gel.  My mind races to place the look. Is she going to a party, taking an ice-skating class or participating in a Dancing with Stars episode? No control over myself, I twist my head, squint my eyes and blurt, “What’s that you are wearing? And why?”

MissingThePoint Mom clears the confusion by saying, “Oh, my husband harasses me about exercising. Before he gets home I put on exercise clothes and wet my hair so it looks like I worked out.”

Bu, of course.

Distracted by the yapping, crated Bichon Friese positioned by the Jolly Green Giant’s fireplace, a second muttering pops out of my mouth, “What? Plastic toes? Why?”  You see, the small dog in the large house was enclosed in a cage and his toes were encased in plastic. Apparently the toenail covers prevent the dog from scratching the wood floors or the kids.  The kids? Where were the kids?

MissingThePoint Mom leads me out of the house past the pool with its various waterfalls and down the hill around the tennis court to the Children’s House,which also serves as the nanny’s house.  The nanny, who in later years will have a title change and be referred to as Teacher, is leading the children in a Popsicle gluing exercise.  My child swaggers over to me and says, “Let’s go.”

Preschool and Kindergarten come and go and MissingThePoint Mom becomes known amongst the school crowd for employing the largest staff of childcare consultants ever known to mankind: daytime nannies, weeknight nannies, weekend nannies, reading teachers, tennis teachers, swimming teachers, speech therapists, manners consultants. In addition to all the women who work at this household in an attempt to raise the children, the children are always at extra curricular classes: cooking class, art class, ABC camp, music school, gymnastics, hip-hop, horseback riding… it’s tiring just to list all those lessons – imagine attending that many classes.

Again, MissingThePoint Mom is nice. That’s not the problem. The problem is that she and her doctor husband have blatantly chosen to ignore every bit of common sense that one should use when raising children.  For instance, the child stamped her foot and refused to eat vegetables or any food with nutritional value.  As a result, the little girl became constipated. Instead of making the child eat some decent food the parent’s answer was to buy a wholesale sized tub of Senokot and make it a part of her daily diet.  Of course, everyday laxatives will cause a person to shit like a pet coon…at inopportune times. 

MissingThePoint Mom is pretty. Not a traffic stopper, but better than average. For some reason, the husband, I suspect, MissingThePoint Mom has spent more than her fair share of time under the knife…gut, butt, eyes, lips. After one major face reorganization, I was so embarrassed to look at her. Meeting her eyes was unsettling because she looked like another person. Seeing MissingThePoint Mom at a school performance, I was rendered speechless and couldn’t maintain a conversation with her as she tried to get her puffy lips to form words.

My children’s new school has been such a relief because the parents are unremarkable. These everyday parents limit my writing prompts, but they keep my sanity in check. However, my newfound calm was shaken when I bumped into MissingThePoint Mom last week.

In order for my son to learn to hold a pencil, it appears the only solution is for him to participate in occupational therapy. In case you don’t know, OT is where you pay for your children to jump on trampolines and squeeze Play-doh. Certainly, if I were a more committed mother or at least a mother with more than 5 extra minutes in my day, I would be able to teach my child to write. However, I know my limitations and have enrolled my son in this handwriting class. Guess who is at the class? MissingThePoint Mom.  Of course, her daughter is getting writing help, which I suspect is not to bring her up to par, but to help her get ahead.

Oddly, MissingThePoint Mom evokes a humble tone. This warmth accompanied by the fact that she is wearing an apron gives her a mom-who-was-baking-cookies-but-had-run-an-errand look. Reread that sentence. I said MissingThePoint Mom was wearing an apron … over her St. John separates. An apron. 

My mouth says, “Why ya wearing an apron?” Her answer, “Oh, I’m really into aprons these days” does not satisfy me.  However, I am unable to ask a follow-up question about the apron because I am distracted by her Invisalign and her eyelash extensions.

It was all too much handle, and seeing MissingThePoint Mom made me tired. I was reminded that while I’ve been lazing around enjoying my children’s new school and its socially unconnected student body, the other school’s moms are still running the race.  Across town children are getting a leg up with movie-making classes while their mothers are getting fresh fetal lamb cell injections to smooth fine lines.

My competitive tendency flairs, and for a teeny-tiny minute I consider enrolling my children in an Architecture for Children class and making myself a Botox appointment. Instead, spent the next thirty minutes watching..."Mommy, watch me. Mommy, look at me. Mom, come see this carnival we made."

My mother visited this weekend. In case you are looking for a general flavor of the visit, I will share a few of her comments, which all involve the word surprise:

“Your house is always so clean, which is why I was surprised to find the toilet in the guest room needing a scrub.”

“I was so surprised to see your new breakfast room. It’s just not like you to decorate and not put one pretty thing in the room.”

“I was surprised that only one beer was drunk at the party.  I thought the Mexican man would drink a beer.”

Today there will be no layering of clothes to ward off the winter. There will be no expedition to ski slopes or museums.  In fact, there will be little activity at all.

The Professor and I were awakened to a “Fiesta” prepared by our children who had used a step stool to gain access to dishes and cups.  Upon entering the dining room we found the table set with a bowls of chips, plates of chocolate coins and cups of wine – real wine that was poured to the edge of the teacups.  Guess we’ve made quite the impression on our children – solid nutrition and quality vintage is the breakfast of champions.

Signs had been made announcing the fiesta and cutouts of animals had been taped to the walls. Oddly, our children, who are woefully uneducated with respect to religion, had fashioned a cardboard cross and erected it in the center of the table.  Curiously, the cross was embellished with Jesus’ blood (red marker) as they explained. Not quite sure what to make of this religious statement.

I say our children are not educated on religion, but that is really not true. Certainly they have had some exposure to Christianity, as until this year they attended an Episcopal school. Furthermore, they go to church at least every fifth Sunday when The Professor and I have Altar Guild duty. The kids help us polish the brass rail of the altar and set-up the communion vessels. However, I don’t push Christianity on them and only answer questions as they are asked.

My religious training was completely different, as my Southern Baptist grandmother read the Bible to me every night I spent at her house. She helped me say my prayers and assisted as I answered the daily questions in my daily Bible study guide.  On Sunday mornings I checked boxes on the front of an envelope that asked if I had:

• Read my Bible every day
• Witnessed to at least one person this week
• Answered daily Bible Study questions
• Tithed at least 10%
• Attended Sunday school
• Attended Sunday morning church service
• Attended Sunday night service
• Attended Wednesday night service

My grandmother gave me the appropriate combination of coins to constitute my 10 percent tithing goal. Not exactly sure what amount of my nonexistent income equaled 10 percent, but the weightier the jangle of coins the more pure I felt as I sashayed my well turned-out self into the Sunday school room and sat on the black-slated wooden chair.  The Sunday school teacher, Mr. Webb, weighed close to 500 pounds and could barely move his mouth because his face was puffed to such extremes that there was no room left to move his lips.

Mr. Webb would hold the basket in front of each child while making soul-connecting eye contact as the child placed his envelope inside the basket. On more than one occasion a child would sheepishly handover the envelope with few boxes checked as tears fell down their faces.  After the envelope collection, Mr. Webb would tally the results and my Aunt Flossie would pop into the class to collect our basket and statistics.  Aunt Flossie would then compare our class to the other classes.  At the big church service, the preacher would announce which class had the most participants reading their Bible, witnessing to sinners, tithing and attending the most church services. 

Devil be damned. I was always on the holy side because my grandmother monitored my daily progress, gave me money and dragged me to the church house every time the doors opened. There was never any doubt Mr. Webb could find in my heart. All my boxes were checked.

The poor kids who lived out in the country were another matter.  Their sinner parents didn’t have a car to get them to the church, or the discipline to make them read the Bible every day, or for that matter, a sharpened pencil to check the boxes on the envelope. Most definitely, they didn’t have the extra money to tithe. 

Mr. Webb found these children by his fierce commitment to the practice of witnessing. He would pick up a few members of his Sunday school class and drive out into the country where the crew would pay a kindly visit to the house of the unwashed.  The car ride was pleasant enough as it never felt like we were going to “witness”. It just seemed like a bunch of kids going for a ride. We joked and laughed and tumbled out the car when it stopped at the end of the Hinson’s dirt road. The Hinson’s house was crooked and made from failing wood, and the yard was littered with all matters of extinct car parts and old furniture.

The five Hinson kids raced up to our holy group and within ten seconds the whole gang was in full gallop across the dirt yard. Chasing chickens, playing hide-n-go-seek, climbing under the house or sitting on a rusted motorcycle – it was all great fun.  Mr. & Mrs. Hinson didn’t seem to enjoy Mr. Webb’s visit as much as the children, and it was always disappointing when the playtime came to an end.  Mr. Webb made sure the children knew that fun like this abounded at Littletown Baptist Church every Sunday and Wednesday, and he would swing by to give them a ride to the service.

The Hinson parents probably hit the hooch before Mr. Webb could drive us off the property. Because she told me years later, I know that when Mr. Webb popped in on my wayward cousin for a session of witnessing, she was often times in the midst of firing up her bong or snorting a little cocaine.  Mr. Webb’s attempt to drag Linda Faye back to church always provided her with immense entertainment because she was stoned out of her mind, and Mr. Webb’s porky personage sent her into fits of laughter.

Just a hunch, but maybe all my early exposure to hell and damnation (mixed with the odd spice of Christian racism) has caused me to leave the door to religion ajar for my children.  Surely, there are those who will differ with this way of raising children and say that it is a great disservice to leave children with an unexplained open void in terms of religion.

Maybe so.

After this morning’s Fiesta ended, I wandered back to the bedroom to find The Professor tucked under the blankets reading a book and watching the snow softly fall from the sky.  I cozied-up to him and we listened to the pounding of little feet coming down the hall in search of us.  The feet stopped and presumably looked into the empty room preceding the bedroom. Pound-pound back to the other bedroom. Silence. Pound-pound back to our room. Bingo. We are found.

Our little guy snuggles in to the warm bed between us and silently, father, mother and son, commune with the unspeakable force of nature and the power of the Maker to generate beauty and miracles. Salvation is obvious.

Meanwhile, in the living room, our daughter was watching Jaws and playing with her new pocketknife. How will it all turn out?

The ski suit was blinding blue and green with a giant sign on the back stating OBNOXIOUS TEXAN.  Accessorized by orange goggles, my four-year old son was more than pleased with his appearance. He seemed unsure if skiing meant slaying wild beasts or shooting errant intruders, never the less, the jumpsuit and headgear satisfied his every need to feel like a warrior. At least my daughter had the sense to wear all black skiwear (a testament to her future) so that she might be mistaken as a Coloradoan.   

Today marks the sixth day that The Professor and I have spent every single minute with our children. We love them, no doubt. However, the little people are loud and never stop making noise. Yabber, jabber, yacky-yak, hum, sing, squeal, yell, scream, cry, whine, snore. We dropped them at ski school and read the sign “Beyond This Point Children and Employees Only.” Bye-bye.

The sound of silence.

In exchange for cash the children will be skied, fed, napped, learned, snacked and skied again. What a deal. Once upon a time I tried to teach one of our older children to ski. Such a mistake. The middle daughter was about nine-years old and it seemed like she was getting the hang of it, so I took her a little too high, I guess. By the time we finally made it to the bottom of the mountain, the runs were closed for the day and the ski patrol was looking for us. The Professor was all a worry and the other daughter was crying for her lost sister – not necessarily for her new stepmother.

Granted, I do not own the most technologically advanced ski clothes. I learned to ski with some kids from Denver who taught me to never look like a Texan by wearing snow bunny and/or furry clothes. The lesson was that one should wear jeans, look cool and not fall. Today I decided that advice was so 25 years ago. 

Ski clothes these days, it seems, keep people warmer. The 10-degree weather accompanied by the prospect of skiing the side of the mountain that was shaded from the sun made me wish I was wearing better engineered clothes. I stopped by the bar to consider if I was a good enough skier to try the sunny side of the mountain.  Either the Painkiller (hot chocolate with peppermint Schnapps) would give me the courage to attempt a harder run, or it would lure me into ordering a second drink. 

Like magic a pamphlet for the spa appeared in my hand. There was initial excitement but experience told me the poor quality paper and graphics would mean a yokel beauty school dropout would be dabbling at an ayurvedic massage at my cost.  I would rather eat rancid tuna salad than have a disappointing massage.  Buttoning my sweater, activating the headband feature of my running shirt (smart, huh?), zipping my coat and slipping on my gloves, I headed out to buy a lift ticket.

Immediately, the wind slapped my face and bit my nose. Within 30 seconds I am frozen to the core. Watching the lift I imagine how cold the metal seat must be.  The lift stopped and the riders were held hostage as the seats swung to and fro as some mechanical problem was addressed or a rider was collected from a fall. Swinging in the air while the wind brutally attacks must be extra unpleasant. My lazy mind conjured the alternative of lying naked on a heated bed while Mandy rubs oil on my back.

It turns out that Mandy’s name was Chasta, and it wasn’t the best massage, but it beat the hell out of frostbite. When my 80 minutes were finished I begged Chasta for another service – a manicure, an eyebrow pluck, facial, colonic, anything -- no dice. Chasta was booked with Après Ski Sports massages for the rest of the day.  I was being thrown out into the cold again.

By this point, it was me against Winter. I had to find a way to avoid being outside. This is going to sound so snobby and very un-me, but when it comes to skiing I think the motto must be “Go big or go home.” It came to my attention that I was in a rinky-dink resort in New Mexico and aside from Chasta’s meager services that were received in a less than plush environment, there was nothing else to do….besides ski.

In Aspen, for instance, there are great stores, restaurants and tons of beautiful people to watch. As I sat on a lacquered picnic bench and ordered another Painkiller that I didn’t even want, the people seemed less than attractive. I put on my worldly, kind mind and tried to image how good and interesting the people with the long gray ponytails and Navajo sweatshirts must be. It was like the pirate fantasy … seems like a good idea as the pirate rips your shirt off, but when you are face to face with the pirate and he hasn’t brushed his teeth, the fantasy goes bad. 

Two girls from California walked in. No, I didn’t ask if they were from California, but there was no chance they were from anywhere else.  Momentarily, my stare-factor was appeased as I gazed at their blonde hair piled high upon their heads, their plumped lips and the black jumpsuit with a slate graphic pattern ornamented by a low-slung gold belt.  Who designs a get-up like that?  Are there significant skiwear designers? 

The California girls were the only action at Tippy’s Hide-a-way Bar and aside from a store that sold Alpaca teddy bears, there was nothing to do in Rinky-Dink Village.  A bookstore would have been nice, but I would have settled for an outdated People magazine or even a torn set of instructions for a generator – written in Chinese.  I guess when people go skiing, they ski. Go figure.

Seriously.  The happenings at my house are hideous. If it weren’t essential that I participate, I would runaway.

The rarely used alarm clock got to showcase its talent with an annoying at 5:30 am buzz. Having been awake for much of the night giving breathing treatments to Asthma Boy, I found it unbelievable that it could be morning so soon.  No time to ponder as I needed to dress, get my son dressed and packed for school, get my daughter dressed and find all her paperwork for the doctor, pill the cat (always a joy), scoop his poop, feed him and transfer his lame body to an outside kennel. Sweet Jesus, the husband made me a cup of coffee.

Zip. Out the door and to the surgery center. On time to make the 6:45 am appointment.

In the waiting room Asthma Boy begins a coughing fit that has mothers shielding their infants and giving one another quizzical looks that say, “Why won’t that woman do something to make her son stop coughing?” 

It is decided that Asthma Boy must be taken home for a five-millionth breathing treatment. Of course, Tonsil Girl is called for her long awaited surgery just as two-thirds of her support team abandons her.  Tonsil Girl is a tough cookie, though, and never winces as she bids her family farewell and hops onto the rolling surgical bed.  Prepared to suck bubblegum air that will take her to the other world, she’s her usual saucy self.
While Tonsil Girl is in surgery, I take advantage of every bit of free time and draft a very compelling and detailed document for work. All about the billing, ya know!  Multi-tasking finds me using my laptop in the hospital bathroom – killing three birds with one stone.

Tonsil Girl is wheeled into recovery and demonstrates the very definition of stoicism. She never sheds a tear and maintains complete dignity – until she vomits on herself. The long day has officially begun.

At home Tonsil Girl looks uncharacteristically stricken by fear. A girl who is not afraid of the devil himself lets a bit of apprehension show in her eyes.  Not one to be comforted, she vomits again and snuggles down with the broken-legged cat.

Horrible mother that I am, I leave Tonsil Girl (with capable father, housekeeper and shocked little brother) and go to a meeting that drags on for two and a half hours.  It feels nice to vary the types of stress in my day. No need to have all motherhood stress – mix it with some work stress and compound it by eating the dozen cookies delivered for someone’s birthday to add some body-image stress. Gotta keep it mixed up!

Back home to nurse Tonsil Girl, Asthma Boy, Broken-Legged Cat and husband who still need eye-drops and warm compresses for last week’s eye surgery.  Ring. “Hello, it’s your mother and my doctor is concerned that nobody is staying with me while I recover from surgery.”  Na-uh.  It was a lanced boil fergoodnesssakes!  Can’t deal with that one.

By 7:00 pm, Asthma Boy is in a full-fledged asthmatic attack.  The husband and I have a brief discussion about who will take him to the hospital.  Since I took him to the hospital JUST LAST WEEK, it seemed like it would be the husband’s turn, but he reminds me that the eye doctor said he shouldn’t drive at night for a while. (Isn’t “a while” over?)

Zoom. Racing to hospital with gasping boy to find all the parking spots full. Surely, the chaplain will not be visiting tonight.

The full parking lot should have been an indicator that the emergency room would be packed. Packed as in, not a single seat available. Standing, I held Asthma Boy for two hours as he hacked and the nurse monitored his oxygen from time to time. My back is broken. 

This comment intends no racial tone, but is mentioned as a fact. I was one of two Caucasians in a room full of Spanish speaking healthcare seekers who repeatedly answered “no” to the “do you have insurance” question.  Of course, while stating they had no insurance, they were able to afford Maclaren strollers, extensive tattoos, gilded sunglasses and brand name jeans belted underneath their ass.  Oh, and every motherfucker in the joint had a cell phone upon which they were talking with loud abandon. Wiping Cheeto stained hands on the brand new hospital walls and furnishings and spilling Sprite on the floor, the pack overtly ignored the NO FOOD OR DRINK sign.

(That sounded really judgmental. I am all for helping my fellow human beings, but it makes me mad that clothes, cars and other forms of materialism take priority over necessities, like health care. There is a mammoth class of people who never think twice about budgeting for health care, which is legitimately too expensive, and but many people just assume someone else is going to pay their portion. I’m that someone else, and I resent saving money by buying the $14.99 umbrella stroller for my child while someone else buys the $300 designer stroller and cries poor when it comes to ponying up for insurance. If you can afford cigarettes, tattoos, and Air Force One tennis shoes at $175 a pair, you can afford to contribute something to the health care system. I'd be willing to accept a tennis shoe trade, in fact.)

Shortly after midnight, Asthma Boy is released. In my bed I sleep like a rock until Tonsil Girl wakes up in pain at 3:00 am. Administer medicine and attend Asthma Boy at 4:00 am and again 5:00 am. Tend to Tonsil girl at 6:30 am. Back to Asthma Boy at 7:00 am and finally at 8:00 am when Asthma Boy wants breakfast, I give up the pretense of sleeping.

Back to the morning routine of pilling cat and shooting him with antibiotics.  I’m dizzy, but must focus on getting food into Tonsil Girl and staying on top of breathing treatments.

Here is my question:  What would Joan Crawford do? Remember the days when a woman could breakdown and check into the hospital for recuperation? Can’t do that anymore a nurse tells me. In the old days, a weary woman could take an uninterrupted rest in a hospital room with the curtains drawn and three meals a day delivered to her bed.  Presumably, this type of rest included an infusion of vitamins and sedatives that provided the patient with a much-needed rest.

Today’s answer for the tired mother is a spa, but I’m here to say that a spa is too much work. At a spa, even if you eschew the competitive exercise classes and cleanses, you have to get yourself dressed and walk to a dining room or lug your worn-out body to a massage or facial. 

I yearn for complete bed rest where the food is wheeled over top of me on a rolling bed tray. Even checking into the Four Seasons requires a person to get out of bed when room service knocks, sit upright to eat and put the used tray in the hall. Plus, there are mirrors and nice furnishings at the Four Seasons, which would cause one to take stock and presumably evaluate the weakness of hiding in a hotel.

AND, when you leave the hotel or spa you might experience great guilt from such a luxurious indulgence.  As soon as you came home, the chores would resume. However, when a person leaves the hospital the world acknowledges they were “sick” and the expectations for a sick person are very low.  Surely the family would tidy-up before you came home and the father would instruct the children, “Mom has been sick. So, let’s keep our voices down and pitch in to help.”

This parenthood gig is so incredibly full-time and there is never a vacation.  Vacation means taking care of children out of the home space where all the tools live.  Vacation is no vacation. Those mothers of the 1940’s might not have been the most attached parents as they took six-week ship rides to Europe, but I bet their mental health was stable – oh, well, maybe not as they were bossed by their husbands. In the end, I would rather be tired and in control than treated like a pet.

Cheers to a good night’s sleep!  For all you mothers of newborns, I feel your pain.

Beauty Confidential is a new title from Harper Collins. Here is some scoop about the author:

Written by Nadine Haobsh, who was dubbed "poster girl for the blogger generation," and featured in international broadcast and prints news, big blogs like Gawker and Gothamist, beauty blogs, etc. Nadine garnered a cult following by blogging as Jolie In NYC about insider beauty secrets and dispensing freebies while working as a beauty editor at Ladies Home Journal.  When finally outed by New York Post, she was let go from LHJ plus Seventeen rescinded their offer to make her their beauty editor.  Nadine …was effectively "dooced", thanks to her blog - Jolie in NYC.

I love words like "cult following" and “dooced”. Why, oh why, can’t Value wIT get dooced or develop a cult following????

Parent Blogger Network is hosting a contest to write about the biggest beauty blunders where the winner gets a batch ‘o beauty products – not that I need them or anything, as my inside beauty shines through like a blinding light.  Don’t you see it in the kind words I write? 

Winners of these contests are selected by random drawing and I NEVER win, which is why I am printing a re-run of a big beauty blunder that has already been published. If you’ve read this already, relive the past with me and be happy for me that my children are now potty trained.

P.S. This afternoon I'm visiting my good friend the hair stylist who will masterfully style my hair into a tunnel for a ferret. No. Really. I'm going to a party where the theme is hogs, hominy, champagne and caviar. It seems fitting that I wear taxidermy with my long, silky dress.  I wanted to incorporate a mounted bird, but my friend talked me into using a 1920's ferret with a little head and teeth. Tasty.

Here's the beauty blunder story:

Having two little children and two teenage stepchildren forces a parent into over-planning and compulsive behavior. Mosty, the almighty schedule keeps the many appointments, performances and personalities at bay, and with strict adherance to the minute-by-minute plan, my life was clicking along until suddenly a storm blew in. I just sat in disbelief as the tornado whirled around me. As fast as it blew in, it blew out.

Let me set the scene: It’s Monday (of course), and I have no plans to work or entertain the children, as we were supposed to be on vacation, which is an entirely different disaster story. To pass the morning, I treated the children to an indoor playground for two and half hours, then brought them home and fed them lunch, let them play in the sprinkler, and took them on an adventure to spy on the neighbor’s landscapers. Pretty good, huh? It wasn’t an A+ day, but a good solid A-.

Then I turned on that alluring devil of a helper called the television. The kids watched an hour of the free baby-sitter while I returned calls and emails. Five minutes before the television time was to end, I decided to dye my hair with some grocery store-bought “natural” hair color. I know how this part of the story ends, but EVERY time I fall for it. I think, “Oh, I can pay $6 and save $125.” It always fails. Always.

So, I’m sitting at my computer with the hair color on while I finish some invoicing. Multitasking makes me feel so efficient and, therefore, so good. I am worthy of taking up airspace. I then tell the children that television time is over.

The toddler goes into hysteria: “I watch Lazytown! I watch Lazytown!” I calmly tell him that he just lived Lazytown...to no avail. He’s crying and crying. I try to change the subject by showing the children the little porcelain box I gave their father earlier in the day for our seventh anniversary. My daughter wants to wants to hold it. “Be careful.” I chide. Yeah. Right. Still screaming, the two-year old fills my head, but I have got to calm him down because I must wash the hair color off. It’s really been on too long…

I jump in the shower while the baby stares at me and screams at the top of his lungs. He really wants a nap, but I’ve taken those away because then he stays up too late. Finally, I get out of the shower and hold him -- and his little eyes close. “No, no, no nap!” I say, as it’s now almost 4:00. He’ll never go to bed if he naps now! We read. We sing. All is well. He’s now awake and smiling.

I go downstairs.

The scene is a mess. All the pillows off the couch. Cookie crumbs everywhere. Naked child. And...what’s this? The porcelain box lies broken in two pieces, and horrifyingly strewn in the middle of the mess.

I am enraged, but I can only muster a pitiful, “You broke Daddy’s box. How could you be so careless?” My daughter bursts into hysterical tears. Not the kind of tears that you make you pity her (“Boohoo, I’m so sorry, Mommy. Can you ever forgive me?”). But the kind of tears that beg for a spanking (“I didn’t do it! I hate you!” punctuated by foot stomping and shrieking).

Suddenly, I am calm -- I think back to a recent parenting book that clues me into the fact that this is a real teaching moment. In fact, it’s THE moment to make a difference in my child’s emotional life. “Honey, please go to your room,” I say.

I call the father of the children and recount the story and ask his advice on what to do. For some reason, I assume he is on the same page as I am. In fact, I think he realizes this is a “teachable” moment and he is going to help shape our children into the kind of people with whom society will be pleased.

Nope. Are you sitting down? He tells me that I should take them out of the house and do something with them -- that I shouldn’t let them just sit home and watch television! As if they had been watching television all day! Even though it’s our anniversary, I say unkind things to him.

With one child off to her room, I use this opportunity to clothe myself - remember, I never had time to dress as the baby was howling at the shower. I tell the baby in an animated and very fake voice, “Now, let’s leave your sister alone. Her door is closed (and she’s yelling in a devil-like guttural scream), so you will have to play elsewhere until she calms down.”

He’s happy. He’s playing in my closet and closing the door and engaging me in peek-a-boo. I go into the bathroom and he comes in soon after. “I go tee-tee, Mommy,” he says with a smile. “WHAT???? Where?” I demand. I feel his underpants and they are dry. Thank goodness. False alarm. He takes me to the closet. No, not false alarm! He has a new trick. He takes his penis out of his underwear and whizzes all over everything. Yep. In my closet.

At last, I look in the mirror. My hair is red instead of “Rich Chestnut.” Of course it is.

I glance at the clock and this whole fiasco took less than thirty minutes. Now, my daughter is saying to her brother, “Come on, let’s clean up the playroom.” The devil came and left.

Mark the date and order a federal holiday – I have been to a non-offensive child’s birthday party. You heard it first! 

Seriously, I hold claim to a special seat that lifts me high above the masses and forces me to sit in judgment and issue wicked sermons about all things wrong that happen at children’s birthday parties.  There are three types of children’s birthday parties that make my head swivel around my spine:

1) Party Extraordinaire – defined by excess, over-the-top (yet boring) entertainment, a caterer, and typically a budget that exceeds $3,000

2) Chain Party – Chuck E. Cheese, Pump It Up, Inflatable Wonderland, Blazer Tag, Gatti-Town, and God help us, Club Libby Lu.  No need to elaborate on why these parties claim a top spot on my list of hatred.

3) Self-Righteous Back to Basics – these parties feature “simple” activities for children, like performing science experiments or churning butter. These parties are geared to right the wrongs of the Party Extraordinaire. However, when the parents add a healthy dose of “Higher than Mighty” it makes me vomit on their Patagonia jacket (if it were ever cold enough in Texas to wear a jacket.)

Tonight, by mistake, I went to a birthday party for a 7-year old. It’s Friday night and opening night for the 97th season of the Austin Symphony. My evening was planned for early drinks and nibbles with the handsome Professor followed by “Quiet Time” otherwise known as the symphony. A symphonic concert, to me, means a chance feel the affects of the earlier alcohol I consumed, time to evaluate my life, and uninterrupted time to work out character subplots.

It’s quite a different story for The Professor. He knows the music, as in, he knows the complete symphonies, like, the notes, and he can tell when a mistake has been made. He’s sweet and holds my hand while he listens (or evaluates) the music. I relax and scheme. When The Professor pulls his hand away from my hand, I take it as my cue to clap.  I have been known to nap during a symphony if the pre-drinks are plentiful. However, I was broken of that habit when I was snoozing with my legs crossed and my heavy wedge-heel shoe dropped loudly onto the concrete floor. Whoops.

Since The Professor endured (like a pix axe to the eye) Robert Earl Keen with me last night, I was looking forward to repaying the favor tonight and sitting at the symphony with him.  Sadly, the date night was not in the cards, as the babysitter had an asthma attack at 3:50. Frantically, I called everyone in my phone list and said things like:

“Hey!  Long time no talk (like two years).  How’re doing? Is there the tiniest possibility your daughter could baby-sit tonight in an hour or so?…..Wow! She’s in college already? Time flies. I can’t believe I didn’t know she graduated. Bad me (send gift next week).”

“Hey, Aunt Pam!  How’s the early retirement treating you?  Must be amazing with no kids at home and no job. Any chance your sweet niece and nephew could come over tonight?…..Oh, yikes! That sounds awful. All day in the bathroom? At least you’ll lose some weight. Feel better. See you at Thanksgiving!”

Email to high-powered relatives: “This is a long shot, but any chance you are free tonight and can host the children for dinner and a little rest?”

Text Message:  In New York, no can do. Would love to. Catch me next time!

Email Response Auto-reply “I’m out of the office traveling on business… call assistant” (Don’t you even think I didn’t consider calling the assistant!)

“Hi, it’s Bitsy from next door.  Any chance your nanny needs extra money? I’m paying top dollar!…..Yep. So it seems ALL the babysitters are going to the Austin City Limits music festival tonight.  Is there a babysitter convention within ACL?”

Finally, I gave up, switched gears and traded my silky shirt for jeans.  My 6-year old was scheduled to attend a birthday party, which I had already deemed unworthy. The invitation for the party was printed on copy paper in a standard font. The invitation said something like “in keeping with tradition, little Johnny does not want presents and instead wants to donate items to the Women’s Shelter.” Like hell Johnny doesn’t want presents!

Sitting in my glass house I hurled a stone—maybe lodged a brick – such a hypocrite because I ban gifts at my children’s parties too.  No doubt, it was a beautiful moment when I didn’t have to search the town for a perfect, child-pleasing gift. Instead I complied with the invitation and collected “gently used” children’s books from my son’s shelves. The shelves needed a cleanse to cull the outgrown books and instead of throwing them into the back of my car and feeling pressure to dump them at Goodwill, I wrapped beautiful ribbon around the books and felt like a good Samaritan. Hmm. First good thing about this party.

I didn’t want to like this mother any more than I liked her unimaginative invitation. There was no good reason for not liking her, but I decided because she had a passel of kids and carried one around in a sling that she was too wholesome and nice (and annoying) for me to befriend. 

Shockingly, when I went inside the house, it met all my criteria (functional, clean, interesting, not filled with plastic toys and video games), but what was so nice is that the mother didn’t ooze over my presence. She didn’t have time to pour on a false gush because she was calmly finishing the birthday cake….not finishing as in “over-committed, poor-planner, bit off too much” but finishing as in “it’s my son’s birthday and I baked a cake for him and his friends.”  It was still warm!

The cake was chocolate with chocolate icing and was not out of a box. She had made cupcakes out of the extra batter and nonchalantly placed the cupcakes around the cake on a cake stand. FREAK MY WORLD. 

I could never waited until the last minute to frost the cake – what if something went wrong?
I could never place random cupcakes next to the cake – how could she not have agonized over the design?
I could never have that many children in my house – without a headcount, how could she know if there was going to be enough food?
I could never have a party that interfered with my children’s strict bedtime – what if the kids got an hour less sleep?

I could never…could I?

Good Ol’ Mom was not self-righteous either. She smiled, pointed to the beer, and was kind.  Between frosting the cake and serving the turkey dogs, she put her baby to bed. There was no rocking, cajoling, fretting. Good Ol’ Mom dropped her happy, sleepy baby into his bed, strapped on a baby monitor and rejoined the party after being away for about two minutes.

The kids played in the backyard and in the “climbing room”.  The climbing room was a tricked-out garage with hundreds of climbing holds on the four walls and the ceiling. The floor was covered with plush fall pads. The first-graders experienced sheer delight.

The climax of the party was a hay hunt.  Good Ol’ Mom hid goodies in a big pile of hay and the kids went crazy finding Whoopee Cushions, polished rocks, candy, masks, and even dollar bills! 

Instead of passing on the plate of calories, I accepted a piece of Good Ol’ Mom’s delicious chocolate cake. Coincidentally, instead of coming home and being obsessed with food, I did not fondle the cookies or stroke the cheese. Nor did I eat an entire box of cereal or a tub of Cool-Whip (fat free, of course). I was satisfied. Good Ol’ Mom’s cake filled my desire – hit the spot.

At 7:30 pm, we were bid goodnight and ushered through the arched gate. As I walked down the street with the other partygoers, no eyes were rolled, no smirks were affected and no catty remarks were issued.

Satisfied, I wondered what would it feel like to have Good Ol’ Mom as your mother?

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Folllowing is a post I wrote last year on the day after Fourth of July. We are going to the same party tonight and will see if my children have matured since last year.

American Woman

Exercise, especially running has never been enjoyable to me and it
has never come easy. However, when I got an iPod, running became a way
for me to have some time alone and listen to all the musical treats
“Pod” had in store for me. In fact, I think that my husband is actually
jealous of my iPod, and I do see how that can be the case, as I am
always wearing it and blocking-out intrusive noises…like conversation.

For months, Pod and I have been running about the town, and running has replaced some other obsessive or compulsive habit for me. Without a run, I feel edgy and annoyed. During the run, however, I often times experience real aggression – surely, a psychiatrist would make a post haste diagnosis based on that statement -- however, it’s a sociological diagnosis I seek, as my point, is that other women might be feeling this too. At any rate, I feel aggressive and competitive when I run. My iPod has a timer, and I constantly check the number of minutes that have passed as I speed-up to pass a flabby old man with his shirt off. The sight of a flat-stomached young girl lengthens my stride -- and that of a small dog on a leash makes me hopeful that the dog’s owner will let Fifi stray into my path so I can punt her into the bushes. My fear is that the winter will come and the extreme Texas summer heat will be gone, and I will not have the reward at the end of the run of being drenched in sweat… a sure sign of accomplishment.

This competitiveness and hardness is showing up in my parenting. In my quest to satisfy some personal psychological or sociological desire, I have modeled bad behavior or values that are really not true to me and it is popping-up in my children.

What happened with the children involved a gluttony of excesses. This could be interpreted from a sociological standpoint or a standpoint of bad parenting –- take your pick. We attended a Fourth of July party atop a high building that ensured a birds-eye view of the fireworks. At the party the children scored as many balloon animals as they cared to stand in line for; they got their cheeks, arms and legs painted; ate cookie after cookie; made ice cream sundaes; and watched a magician perform before the firework show began. As we were leaving the party, the hostess gave each child three balloons on a string while my husband carried an armload of balloon animals.

Riding down the elevator with the booty, the elevator stopped and a middle-aged woman with three children entered. Probably a grandmother and obviously a cleaning lady for the building, she carried a toddler and held the hands of two children about the ages of six and four. They were quiet children and were not jumping around acting like they owned the elevator, as my children were doing. The four-year old child meekly said, “I want a balloon.” My husband and I both cheerfully urged, “Oh, yes. Kids, give the children a balloon!” To my utter horror, both children, and a friend we had in tow, clenched the balloon strings in their hands and firmly refused to give the children three of the nine balloons clogging the elevator. My husband and I continued to kindly encourage them to hand-over a balloon while the grandmother said, “Oh, that’s ok.” The awkward moment was brief as the elevator door opened and we went separate ways.

My husband was angry. I was heart-broken. This was the product of my parenting. If there was ever a competition worthy of winning, this was it, and I lost. The kids in the elevator had nothing, and my kids were loaded down with loot and sugar, and all they could do was hold it tighter. The husband was coming undone in the lobby, and I really thought he was going to beat the children right there. It pains me to recall that the only thing I could contribute to the situation at that point was to tell my husband to calm down because there was a congressman’s wife behind us. We escaped outside into a dark and muggy night.

After taming the angry father – the outrage tactic was not working – I decided to work on the three-year old. Tears streamed down my face as I tried to explain how he should always be generous and how he should have given his balloon to the children in the elevator. He was affected and pleaded, “Mommy, don’t cry. Don’t cry. I will give my balloons away,” I really think he understood the gravity of his stinginess, but I had already released the tainted balloons into the sky, and of course, the family was long gone.

The next job was the five-year old -- a much harder case. We tried to discuss what would be better: waking up and seeing three deflated balloons in your room and realizing that you had acted greedy and selfish or waking up knowing that you made somebody happy. She offered various excuses about why she wasn’t greedy. “Mom, I was going to give the balloons away when we got downstairs.” The jury is out on whether or not an impression has been made.

This materialism is killing us -- my family and this society. As I sit here and write, I am looking at a woman who has a fresh, trendy haircut with highlights, a body she has poured hours into sculpting, stylish size 4 pants and coordinated silk top, carefully selected and expensive jewelry, a handbag that probably cost more than an African tribe makes in a year, and shoes with rhinestones that highlight her recently pedicure. How much does that look cost in terms of money and in terms of values? How many hours has she invested into herself and to what end?

Now, I will climb down from that high horse and write to you about how hypocritical that blather was and what a poser I am. My husband was out of town for eight days and brought me a gift upon his return. Some weeks ago a wave of materialism had overcome me, and I told him that I would like for him to buy me a pair shoes. I was curious to know what he thought constituted a nice pair of shoes. Embarrassingly, I actually mentioned, “I wonder what shoes you find sexy.” It’s odd how you think you know where you stand and all of a sudden you are in the middle of the ocean.

My husband came home and opened his bag to reveal some shoes wrapped in tissue. I parted the tissue and started laughing, “Is this a joke?” His facial expression revealed that it was not a joke, but sometimes on Candid Camera they try to hide their real feelings; so, I blundered on, “Did you steal these from a librarian?” His face definitely revealed that this was not Candid Camera, but was his attempt to give me a gift. I started scrambling and trying to backtrack, but it was way too late. My materialism had pushed me over the line and I missed the sentiment.

This scene was much like the first Christmas after my parents divorce. My father was with my mother and me on Christmas morning. There was giddy hope on everyone’s part that there would be reconciliation. My father pulled out a relatively small box that was wrapped and handed it to my mother. He wasn’t much for giving my mother presents, but when he did, they were of fairly high monetary value and certainly something she had pre-ordained. She opened the box to find a Christmas ornament that was made from volcanic ash. While traveling in Colorado my father had seen the ornament and thought it was interesting and beautiful, and it made him think of her. Maybe it was the volcano that made him think of her. She burst into tears and ran from the room. Her ungratefulness stuck with me for years. I thought she was so vapid and shallow, and yet now I exhibited something very similar. Something about that apple not falling far from the tree goes here…however, I am in hopes of chopping the whole tree down.

Last week Sharon Jayson, the behavior and relationships reporter from USA Today, interviewed me for a href="http://www.usatoday.com/news/health/2007-05-08-alpha-beta-moms_N.htm">story about Alpha Moms –  whatever that means. I’ve heard various definitions of Alpha Mom, but Jayson described Alpha Mom as mothers who “view parenting in much the same way they view the work world -- being very organized, etc.”  During the interview she asked me why I felt the need to plan, fret and agonize over seemingly trifle details, thus claiming a spot on the Alpha Mom team.  In typical fashion, I responded with a light, flip comment that generated a laugh and diverted attention from the real issue.  After the interview, I was honest with myself, and the reason that I obsess over everything from feeding my family on a schedule to organizing the ribbon drawer is because I live in fear.

I fear that I will die and my children will be motherless.
I fear my children will be harmed.
I fear my children will suffer if they do not have all the advantages.
Mostly, I fear that if I fail to be less than a perfect mother, I will be fired.

My husband and I married when I was 30 and he 36. He brought with him to the marriage two daughters from a previous marriage.  We were content with two children and didn’t plan on having more, but we decided that if I did become pregnant, then we would be happy. When I did become pregnant (after about 10 seconds), I thought that my husband would be the main caregiver for the new baby. He was a father. He knew how to handle children. I was a selfish, only child and a busy career girl with no previous baby experience. In my mind, having a baby was like a company buying a subsidiary – in this situation, the baby wasn’t under my direct division, but I would provide necessary support as needed.  Go team, go – let’s acquire a baby!

Realistically, I knew that the baby would require my attention, but I viewed the forthcoming baby like I would view a charity asking to host an event at my house – I knew there would be work to be done – plant some flowers, wallpaper the bathroom, buy fresh flowers, and I would probably have to leave work early, but ultimately, the charity staff would handle the details like nametags and follow-up letters. I would birth the baby, buy the clothes and order the diaper service, but my husband would do the heavy lifting like teaching the baby to walk and helping with any emotional needs, if there were any.

What a shock it was when my daughter, who over-stayed her nine months in my womb by two weeks, was finally knifed out of my gut. After the nineteen hours of wrestling an uncomfortable knot from my uterus, the doctors, nurses and family left my hospital room.  It was twilight, and I was staring at the wall in the darkening room wondering what had happened to me. The nurse plunged into the room dragging a streak of fluorescent light with her. She dropped a baby on my lap and left the agitated infant screaming in my arms.  The door slowly closed and the harsh light faded – in the dim light I went to work on the little ball of flesh.  Instinctively, I undressed the baby and freed her from the hospital clothes that were unnaturally clinging to her body. I, too, took off my mistake of clothing.  Skin to skin, I pressed the little baby to my chest and she stopped crying. The power of knowing how to care for this new life was equivalent to the caveman starting the first fire.   The “rightness” of this action had enough energy to engulf the hospital in flames.  From that moment I knew that my husband was not sitting first chair on this project – I was lead counsel on this case.

The responsibility of being a good mother is overwhelming, as anyone at Parent Bloggers can tell you, and it’s out of fear that I am motivated to do an exceptional job.  There is most definitely fear that I will put my children in jeopardy if I don’t raise them well, but there is also the pressure of being fired --- by whom, I’m uncertain, but it’s a real, albeit crazy, notion.

When I grocery shop, eat and plan meals, I do so in fear.  I fear that if I don’t eat high-fiber cereal with soymilk and blueberries that there will be nothing in my body to attach itself to the bad cholesterol hanging around in my arteries (isn’t that where it lives?). If not stopped the cholesterol will corrode my arteries and stop my life.  It’s not that I am afraid of dying.  What a rest that would be!  I am afraid of leaving my children motherless. 

Flashback:  A new stepmother, I take my new children hundreds of miles away from their real mother to a dude ranch in Montana. Seemingly, we drive to the end of the earth. Then we park our car and get into a 4-wheel vehicle and drive across unpaved and uncut roads deep into the interior of a ranch. It’s beautiful, and while the children jump with abandon on a trampoline, it never occurs to me how impossible it would be to get to a hospital in a timely manner should an accident occur. 

Furthermore, we saddle-up on horses that we have caught in a pasture and with no helmet, we gallop, no, we haul-ass, across the prairie.  I entice the girls to try to beat me in a horserace – whipping the horses with a crop, we urge them to run at breakneck speed as we fly into the wind. What if the horse would have hit a rock, stumbled, spooked, bucked? If one of the girls had taken a fall and needed medical care, it wasn’t available.  How stupid of me!  If I die, my replacement is destined to be an irresponsible woman who will kill my children in a vain and senseless escapade. I have to stay healthy so my children won’t be found lifeless in a field having been trampled by a herd of cows.

When I force my getting-to-big-to-hold daughter to sit in my lap while I implore her to “make no excuses…it’s your responsibility…no matter the circumstances, if something – anything - happens on your watch, then it’s your fault….if you borrow my Sharpie markers and leave them out for your brother to use and he writes on the wall, then it’s your fault.” 

Flashback:  I’m 19 years old and am with my friend whose father is our employer. His private jet has landed at the Westchester County airport, and we are late to pick him up. She is FREAKING OUT. I’m calm. We got caught in traffic, what’s the big deal?  When we arrive, the father, a daunting man of 6’6” and about 250 lbs with a red face, bears down on her. Finger jabbing at her face, he berates her in a New York way that shakes my southern bones to the core.  He says that no matter what the circumstances, she was supposed to pick him up on time.  NO EXCUSES.  After witnessing this dressing-down and many others that included his wife and other children, I learned a lesson:  no matter what, it’s my responsibility.

This Alpha Mom gig also has its fear roots in vanity.  Out of fear, I constantly monitor the image and perception I present to my children with respect to my career, writing and friends. I want to make sure my children know I am a good worker, creative hobbyist, and have good friendships, not because I am trying to impress them, but because I am trying to impress UPON them that it’s possible to have a perfect home, high-powered job, creative sideline and tended friendships.  We all know that’s a lie.  I guess when I find myself screaming at the top of my lungs in the front yard that the kids figure out that I’m incapable of doing everything (and all at once).  Really, though, the kids just think I’m bizarre and a little on the mean side, I suspect– they never make the connection that being an Alpha Mom is just too much pressure!

Flashback:  I have no flashback that explains this need to impress the children with the ability to “have it all.” Guess it comes from all the 1980’s advertising about bringing home the bacon and frying it up in a pan. My generation was bludgeoned with the message of breaking the glass ceiling – it was almost a taunt.  What loser wouldn’t at least try to break through the limits of a male dominated work world?  (I never factored motherhood into the equation, as nobody ever mentioned that raising children took time. My parents sent me to my grandmother’s house from the end of May to the middle of August. At 14 I drove the car to my JOB and school.)

My model was my best friend’s mother who was an English professor and single mother of two. She taught all day, and at night she tried to balance cooking dinner (I ate dinner with them almost every night), listening to our mindless drivel and trying to pull us up to higher discourse, grading papers from less than committed students and finding time to publish her own writing. Being the English Department Chair was certainly something she was qualified to do, but she had so many responsibilities that I assume chairing the department – breaking the glass ceiling – seemed like just more work. 

Finally, in my atypical world of fear, I fear an impending imaginary war and correlating imprisonment.   Yes, I understand that statement just crossed the line and propelled me into the world of the insane.  The “Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders" probably names my fear of becoming a prisoner war as “paranoia”, and surely I could get some type of drugs to curtail this psychological anomaly.  But for the sake of argument, let’s pretend I’m sane, and let’s use this fact that I’m afraid of being captured and tortured to explain why I work frenetically to meet all the goals, ring all the bells and instill a sense of hurried panic in my children.  My rationale is that if condition myself and my children to endure hard work that regimented life in prison will be easier and bearable.   This fully explains why I pushed my three-year old daughter into drawing a picture of herself watering flowers – a sort of resume – to get hired by our neighbors to water their potted plants. This also explains why I was so distraught when she quit her new job after a week’s employment.

Flashback:  I am nine years old and walk into the First Baptist Church of Lilesville, North Carolina (pop. 459) where they are showing the “Diary of Anne Frank” on a pull down projection screen.  In my pink Holly Hobbie smock top and orange polyester shorts, I squat behind the back pew and peer at the horror taking place to poor Anne Frank  – forever more I await my capture and torture. “Schindler’s List” did nothing to dissuade my fear.

As usual, I will end with the realization of my flaws and vow to change my behavior.  In “Stepping Down From the Pedestal” and “Saturday Morning Basketball” I realize the insanity of my actions as Alpha Mom, and promise to stop acting without thinking. This writing exercise points out the foundation of the problem, and now that I have this understanding, I will try again to curtail my maniacal planning and scurrying that is borne of fear….fear that is not real. 

Today is the day I say “Uncle”.  For the past five, almost six years, I have been competing in the unspoken, illusive and imaginary contest for Best Mother.  Over the years I have had a few points taken off in the areas of discipline, tone and politically correct mothering – a swift stream of Tourette-like cuss-words have shot out of my mouth on a few (daily) occurrences. And, from time-to-time I have used questionable parenting methods like getting my children to come inside from playing by telling them to “Run, run, run, as fast you can. The Indians are coming, and we must get inside. Lock the door. Hurry!”  The children did get a bit panicked and their heart rate was pretty high, but once I got them inside and calmed, they were fine.

Those few dings have made my winning the Best Mother contest difficult, but my scores in the arenas of organization, presentation, creativity, scheduling and working-like-a-dog, propelled me to the top of the Best Mother contest.  Because of the prestige associated with this award, it is with great difficulty that I resign from this high post.  At close of business today, my glue gun will handed-down to the second runner-up and my station wagon will be returned to the dealer.

A few weeks ago I mentioned to my friend Julia that I hosted a picnic for my children’s friends – nothing out the ordinary for me, just day of fun in the sun on Texas Capitol grounds with cute picnic baskets for each child containing, among other tasty treats, sandwiches cut into the shape of Texas with a raisin for the capitol. Oh, and I arranged a personal visit for the kids to go behind the highly guarded gates of the exclusive Governor’s Mansion.  Nothing big, it was just a way to celebrate Thursday. Julia told me point blank that I was the person messing it up for other mothers.  My first thought was that Julia must not be organized enough to go the extra mile, and even though she has written a best-selling parenting book, with that attitude, she would remain in the runner-up category and never make it to Best Mother.

Somehow Julia’s words have come back to haunt me.  With Halloween and all its associated projects breathing down my neck, I must have missed a beat, and I did the unforgivable-- I forgot the snack for my five-year old’s basketball game.  Shortly after dinner, the little dears played a hard game of basketball and everyone looked around for “Snack Mom.” I looked too.  Where the hell was Snack Mom?  Oh, no! I was Snack Mom, and I forgot. It was humiliating for my child because she lost bragging rights for claiming the most popular and pleasing snack; it was humiliating for my husband who lost the honor of gloating as provider; and it was humiliating for me to have missed such an easy score.  To loose points on something so perfunctory as bringing snack was just sloppy. It is forgivable to bring Fruit Roll-ups or store-bought Rice Krispie’s instead of basketball themed cookies or oranges made to look like basketballs, but it is not acceptable to completely forget the snack. Quickly, I decided to repent by inviting the team over to dye their hair pink, the team color, before the next game.

The Julia curse was still on this morning, Halloween, when I read an email from Miss Morgan’s Three Year Old –Tuesday/Thursday class mentioning the various jobs for their Halloween party.  With all the drama of wardrobing my five-year old for the Kindergarten Halloween pageant, I forgot to make goodies for the three-year old class. Quickly, I grabbed some black linen bags professionally printed with silver ink saying “Ghostly Goodies from The Christians” and stuffed them with some items I happened to have on hand: bouncy eyeballs, skeleton key rings, gooey caskets, and pop-up monsters. Darn, now I had depleted my goodies for the night’s trick-or-treaters.   Tough, let them eat Snickers.

Off to the costume parade, my hacking three-year old starts to show signs of an upcoming asthma attack.  If I have to fit in a doctor’s appointment, how can I live-up to my responsibility of helping make ghosts out of white footprints?  As my son and I sat in the audience of the costume parade, his constant cough-cough must have jarred my brain and Julia’s words haunted me like the ghost prancing in the parade.  Was I the one screwing it up for everyone? Was I really the problem? Me, with my black printed goodie bags; me, using handmade paper for Valentines; me, addressing Christmas cards in July; me, arranging for Santa to hijack the birthday bus for my daughter’s birthday.  Was I raising the ante at every turn?

The hacking boy was becoming louder than the clapping at the costume parade. The anxious, worried and annoyed stares increased.  After my scary skeleton paraded by, hacker and I made a quick exit, and wandered around the grocery store waiting for the doctor’s appointment. I thought of my fellow comrades in the contest:  the lady who brings a cooler of drinks to share at every single athletic and/or school event; the mother hides toys in the backyard gravel for the children to find; the mother who gives monogrammed sweatshirts to every kid in the class for Christmas. Geez, where will it end? I can’t keep up.

Hacking boy, the contest and my pressing need to GET TO WORK swelled into a huge wave that took-over my being, and I countered with the most natural response.  I stole something from the grocery store. With complete premeditation, I stole a case of water from the grocery store. Shoving the water to the back of the rack under the car-shaped shopping cart, I engaged the checker in conversation to distract her from checking under the bottom of the cart.  Once in the parking lot I felt complete satisfaction and compensation from the world, and especially from the judges of the Best Mother contest.  The contest sponsors must have been gifting me a little reward to maintain my interest and keep me involved in the process.

The buzz of the petty theft kept me high all the way out of the parking lot and through the first traffic light. However, my nagging conscience coupled with reality and decency made me realize that participation in the Best Mother contest had gotten out of control and was propelling me into a life of crime. 

That is why, dear readers, I must resign from my current reign as Best Mother and let it be known that I will not compete in next year’s competition.  The competition has been a part of my life for some time now, and I truly enjoy the challenge of turning a child’s bed into a magical house, or writing a book as a birthday present, or being the first person in my town (or maybe the nation) to buy the season's Christmas stamps. However, I realize that being on the contest circuit has turned into a sickness for me. As of today, I will be checking into a rehabilitation center and will do my best to reform. But no, I am not making restitution for the water. I deserve it.