I have written before about my desire to win the coveted “Mother of the Year” award. I’d like to believe that there really is an award and a banquet each year.
Just imagine…a glamorous ballroom filled with women in beautiful, size 2 ball gowns, perfect hair and smokey eye makeup, sipping pomegranate martinis and gushing about how amazing they are. The conversations would include how they got their 4 children to 6 different soccer games on a Saturday while their crock pot cooked their breakfast, lunch, and dinner in their immaculate home organized by their foolproof morning, afternoon and evening routines.
Then one lucky woman would be honored to receive the Mother of the Year award. It would include a plaque, a trip to a tropical island and the inspiring minivan window decal. This way she could show everyone as she drives to soccer practice, dance rehearsal and the grocery store with coupons in hand that she is completely devoted to the blessed children God gave her.
At this point my alarm goes off and I spend 10 minutes trying to pick the least wrinkled school uniform to throw on my still sleeping children. I scrounge for the piece of paper or back of receipt that I wrote down the Special Lunch dates on. Realizing I will never find the paper, I make lunches just to be safe. As I’m stuffing practice uniforms into soccer bags, I hear my children complaining about how they have to take a backpack AND a soccer bag to school.
As all of my Mother of the Year stories, this one started off with the best intention. My son has a school project in which he has to go outside on a semi-regular basis and look at the moon. Two years ago, as my daughter was completing this same assignment I swore among the tears that I was going to do this right when my son was in 2nd grade. We’ll, we’re about a month into the project and I’m on the same path to disaster. As most of our evenings are filled with soccer, homework, dinner, and “get in the shower and get to bed because I’m not dealing with crabby children in the morning anymore and I am not getting you dressed so you can just go to school in your pajamas!”, we are a bit behind.
After soccer practice, stuffing dinner down my children’s throat and yelling to, “hurry up in the shower! Water costs money!”, I decided it was a good idea to go look at the moon. My son and I went outside in our pajamas, armed with the assignment, a pencil, and a cold beer in my hand. At least my son had decency to put flip flops on.
If you have to find the moon you just go outside and look up, right? Wrong….we couldn’t find it. We decided to split up. I went one way and my son ran around our apartment building the other way. As I walked down a path I began to see faces peeking out of family room and kitchen windows. Pajamas…barefoot…beer…remember? Next thing I know, my son is racing toward me and passes me yelling, “I think I found it!!” as if he was looking for a lost puppy.
After 3 passes up and down the path and watching my son lap me for the 2nd time, I realized there had to be an easier way. Instead of cutting him off at the next pass, I decided to just start yelling my son’s name.
Let me help you with the visual in case you haven’t caught on yet. Pajamas, barefoot, beer, yelling my son’s name in the courtyard of an apartment complex surrounded by 5 apartment buildings at 9:00 at night. Those same faces began to peek out from behind the blinds again. I felt like I was filming the preview for the new reality show on TLC this fall. I should have given my son a nickname like, “Tiny” or “Rugrat”, or “Tiny Rugrat”.
We went back in and scientifically observed the information we needed from my sister’s IPad. Assignment done. I swore we would try again the next night. That was 5 nights ago….