Mom Score, where 5 is outstanding, 4 is Proficient, and 3 is Needs Improvement.
This morning, I rolled out of bed and staggered sideways across the room like a drunk person. It was the beginning of new morning. Tuesday morning.
I made it through Monday with a sinus headache. I could feel the fluid my head when I pressed my fingers above my temples. Squishy, icky stuff. Last night I propped my head up on several pillows to encourage gravity to take care of things but this morning I could still feel the pressure, as if someone had clamped my head in a vise. And then there was the dizzy stumbling about that immediately followed contact with the ground. Goop in your head is bad for equilibrium.
So is the heaviest day of one's time-of-the-month.
But you know what moms do. Yes! Power on at half- or quarter- capacity. Tea always helps, and this morning was no exception. Slapped some eggs in a pan (everyone has a complaint--not enough salt, too hard, yadayada), made a lunch, and skeedaddled up to the shower. The girls were relative angels, which was nice. They played all morning and Elspeth organized Bea's snack and brushed Bea's hair ("Do you think I could do this for money?" she said as I came downstairs. I was tempted to say yes).
Out of the shower and a quick glance at the clock tells me it's much later than it should be--9:05. Kids have to be in their classrooms at 9:20. I don't know why I didn't recognize this as a problem, because when Bea asked if we could ride bikes I said, "Sure!" And when the dog bustled hopefully around my legs, I decided to take him, too. And when Elspeth started down the driveway without her helmet, we took the time to back up and put on the helmet instead of throwing our bikes down in the yard and jumping into the car--our last chance at being on time. Instead, I punched a bunch of numbers into the garage door mechanism--none of which worked--and we took off leaving the garage door gaping open. C'est la vie, I always figure--if someone wants our stuff that badly, well then, que sera, sera, and all that.
I pedalled down the road with Charley's leash in one hand, and he ran valiantly beside me until he sniffed another dog. "No! Charley, no!" I yelled, trying to untangle myself and the leash and the bike.
Bea had to stop along the way to pick up a puzzle piece she found in the middle of the road. I turned around to see her off her bike, crouched on a speed bump, checking out her new treasure. "Don't ever stop in the middle of the road!" I admonished.
"What's that on the grass, Mommy?" she asked.
"Frost. Don't ever stop in the road, okay? Cars can't see you."
"Frost! It looks like snow!"
I was not getting my safety lesson across.
Charley kept trying to pee on things. Finally, when we reached the final gravel stretch and heard the first bell ring, Charley could not contain himself any more and decided to deposit a steaming heap by the playground. I climbed off my bike and scooped it while trying to make light conversation with a dad who was on his way back from school, having dropped his kids off on time.
Bea was waiting for me at the gate to the parking lot, and we climbed off our bike (I left mine there hoping nobody would ride away on it), plucked up the dog, handed Bea her backpack, and we made our way through the lot as fast as we could. Which wasn't very fast. Poor Bea, peeking out from under her bike helmet, juggling her enormous backpack and trying to push her handlebars, dropped her bike, which I missed because I was walking ahead, trying to encourage Bea to hurry to the bike racks. A mom walking back down the sidewalk said, "She's dropped her bike!" Another mom looked at me, frankly unimpressed at my appearance. Well, lady, let me tell you a thing or two. . . .
Through the windows we saw kids settled at their desks. Empty busses pulled away and the last of the cars circled up toward the road. We finally made it to the bike rack where I shoved Bea's helmet into her basket just as the second bell rang.
Elspeth was nowhere to be seen, but her bike was neatly racked. She recognizes a sinking ship when she sees one, and takes the appropriate steps.
Truly late. I stood there, holding the dog and my helmet, wearing my dress clothes and black leather clogs, with dripping wet hair, encouraging Bea quietly to go through the door. Some moms would have left their dog at home so they could walk their kindergartner to her classroom, but I am apparently not one of those forward-thinking persons.
"Bye, honey!" I called, softly enough, I hoped, to escape the notice of the principal and traffic guards packing up for the morning. "You might have to go the office for a tardy slip! Actually, go straight to your classroom!"
Another mom saw me as I skulked away from the school. She called, "Going for that wet hair look, are you?" She smiled conspiratorially as if she was, too, but her wet hair was pulled neatly into a bun and she looked as if she had been up at five, doing her nails and making perfect breakfasts for a perfect family.
As I texted to a friend, Mom Score: 2/5. If I'm lucky. Maybe more like a 1.5/5. Maybe not outstanding, but not failing either. You have to go to the negatives, as far as I'm concerned, to get a fail. Most moms secretely function on the 2 range most of the time, I like to think. And wet hair and a tardy kid is not the mark of a fail, especially when said children are happy and secure even though they are entering the school late and alone. That, lady, is a 5 in my books.
Still. I got home, unwound the twist tie to the bad, delicious white bread, and toasted myself a thick slice. Yesterday I spent the day conscientiously eating plain greek yogurt and split pea soup all day. Tuesday morning: To hell with it, I thought. Reheated tea and thick white bread spread with Jiffy peanut butter instead of the all natural-fresh ground. But some Tuesday mornings call for it.
I made it through Monday with a sinus headache. I could feel the fluid my head when I pressed my fingers above my temples. Squishy, icky stuff. Last night I propped my head up on several pillows to encourage gravity to take care of things but this morning I could still feel the pressure, as if someone had clamped my head in a vise. And then there was the dizzy stumbling about that immediately followed contact with the ground. Goop in your head is bad for equilibrium.
So is the heaviest day of one's time-of-the-month.
But you know what moms do. Yes! Power on at half- or quarter- capacity. Tea always helps, and this morning was no exception. Slapped some eggs in a pan (everyone has a complaint--not enough salt, too hard, yadayada), made a lunch, and skeedaddled up to the shower. The girls were relative angels, which was nice. They played all morning and Elspeth organized Bea's snack and brushed Bea's hair ("Do you think I could do this for money?" she said as I came downstairs. I was tempted to say yes).
Out of the shower and a quick glance at the clock tells me it's much later than it should be--9:05. Kids have to be in their classrooms at 9:20. I don't know why I didn't recognize this as a problem, because when Bea asked if we could ride bikes I said, "Sure!" And when the dog bustled hopefully around my legs, I decided to take him, too. And when Elspeth started down the driveway without her helmet, we took the time to back up and put on the helmet instead of throwing our bikes down in the yard and jumping into the car--our last chance at being on time. Instead, I punched a bunch of numbers into the garage door mechanism--none of which worked--and we took off leaving the garage door gaping open. C'est la vie, I always figure--if someone wants our stuff that badly, well then, que sera, sera, and all that.
I pedalled down the road with Charley's leash in one hand, and he ran valiantly beside me until he sniffed another dog. "No! Charley, no!" I yelled, trying to untangle myself and the leash and the bike.
Bea had to stop along the way to pick up a puzzle piece she found in the middle of the road. I turned around to see her off her bike, crouched on a speed bump, checking out her new treasure. "Don't ever stop in the middle of the road!" I admonished.
"What's that on the grass, Mommy?" she asked.
"Frost. Don't ever stop in the road, okay? Cars can't see you."
"Frost! It looks like snow!"
I was not getting my safety lesson across.
Charley kept trying to pee on things. Finally, when we reached the final gravel stretch and heard the first bell ring, Charley could not contain himself any more and decided to deposit a steaming heap by the playground. I climbed off my bike and scooped it while trying to make light conversation with a dad who was on his way back from school, having dropped his kids off on time.
Bea was waiting for me at the gate to the parking lot, and we climbed off our bike (I left mine there hoping nobody would ride away on it), plucked up the dog, handed Bea her backpack, and we made our way through the lot as fast as we could. Which wasn't very fast. Poor Bea, peeking out from under her bike helmet, juggling her enormous backpack and trying to push her handlebars, dropped her bike, which I missed because I was walking ahead, trying to encourage Bea to hurry to the bike racks. A mom walking back down the sidewalk said, "She's dropped her bike!" Another mom looked at me, frankly unimpressed at my appearance. Well, lady, let me tell you a thing or two. . . .
Through the windows we saw kids settled at their desks. Empty busses pulled away and the last of the cars circled up toward the road. We finally made it to the bike rack where I shoved Bea's helmet into her basket just as the second bell rang.
Elspeth was nowhere to be seen, but her bike was neatly racked. She recognizes a sinking ship when she sees one, and takes the appropriate steps.
Truly late. I stood there, holding the dog and my helmet, wearing my dress clothes and black leather clogs, with dripping wet hair, encouraging Bea quietly to go through the door. Some moms would have left their dog at home so they could walk their kindergartner to her classroom, but I am apparently not one of those forward-thinking persons.
"Bye, honey!" I called, softly enough, I hoped, to escape the notice of the principal and traffic guards packing up for the morning. "You might have to go the office for a tardy slip! Actually, go straight to your classroom!"
Another mom saw me as I skulked away from the school. She called, "Going for that wet hair look, are you?" She smiled conspiratorially as if she was, too, but her wet hair was pulled neatly into a bun and she looked as if she had been up at five, doing her nails and making perfect breakfasts for a perfect family.
As I texted to a friend, Mom Score: 2/5. If I'm lucky. Maybe more like a 1.5/5. Maybe not outstanding, but not failing either. You have to go to the negatives, as far as I'm concerned, to get a fail. Most moms secretely function on the 2 range most of the time, I like to think. And wet hair and a tardy kid is not the mark of a fail, especially when said children are happy and secure even though they are entering the school late and alone. That, lady, is a 5 in my books.
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| "Thumbs up, Mommy. We're all still alive!" |
Still. I got home, unwound the twist tie to the bad, delicious white bread, and toasted myself a thick slice. Yesterday I spent the day conscientiously eating plain greek yogurt and split pea soup all day. Tuesday morning: To hell with it, I thought. Reheated tea and thick white bread spread with Jiffy peanut butter instead of the all natural-fresh ground. But some Tuesday mornings call for it.
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Jesse B