This week I failed miserably as a mother.
I had a long weekend of work and I was looking forward to a day off on Monday. Mr. Gaga had a lot of big important meetings at work so he got up and left early. I got up early too – ready to start the day. I had a “to-do” list a mile long.
Michael complained of a cramp as he put on his sneakers to leave for the bus.
“I’m sure it’s fine – maybe you just have to poop?” I suggested.
He declined my offer to let him have some poop time and I would drive him to school, so off he went.
I headed out to my spinning class. I usually don’t bring my phone with me but just to be safe, I brought it with me to my bike so I could be sure not to miss a call from the school.
I did receive a couple of phone calls from a strange number, but ignored them, thinking they were telemarketers.
I enjoyed a much-needed workout and at the end of the class while I was stretching I grabbed my phone. The mystery number had called twice and left a message and there was a text from Mr. Gaga.
I don’t know about your household, but in my household, there’s nothing worse than hot lava.
It is presumed to be the most deadly and treacherous substance that should obviously be avoided at all costs.
My children have nearly destroyed all of my furniture from jumping frantically onto couches and chairs to avoid “FAKE HOT LAVA.”
So when I read Mr. Gaga’s text I nearly threw up myself.
I was in deep shit, and there was nothing I could do or say to explain myself.
I ran for my life out of the spinning studio.
I called Mr. Gaga as I peeled out and headed home.
“What’s going on?” I asked trepidously.
“Well Michael threw up at school so the nurse called you twice and you didn’t answer your phone. So then he threw up again and so she called me. So I excused myself from my meeting to go get him.”
“But it was a number that I didn’t recognize!” I defended myself.
“Just get home.” he answered shortly.
I was totally fucked.
And what could I say?
That my spinning class is more important than my motherly duties?
I am not even skinny!!!
Well my punishment for my neglectful ways was to be stuck in the house with Michael while he vomited every 20-30 minutes.
After he had thrown up 13 times (I counted) – I call the doctor to see if this was normal.
They suggested that I spoon-feed him Gatorade, one teaspoon every ten minutes to make sure that he wouldn’t die.
DAMN YOU UNIVERSE!!
I was stranded at home and Mr. Gaga wasn’t due home until 9 PM – “Hmm, I wonder if I called any of those Gatorade parents and asked for a Gatorade if they would lend me one..” I thought.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
I held out for Mr. Gaga.
Michael lived and after two solid days of Lysol-ing the house and bleaching toilets and towels and sheets – I was ready for the mental institution.
On Wednesday I went to work and was starting to feel better.
That was short-lived.
That night, Sam came home with a homework assignment to “write a biography about a parent.”
“I’ll wait for Dad,” Sam said matter-of-factly.
“Well Dad isn’t coming home until very late,” I answered, “I think you better do your story about me.”
He was not happy.
I can’t say I blame him.
Let’s face it. As Sam pointed out, Mr. Gaga could once throw a fastball at 90 mph. I have nothing that is even remotely as cool as that.
During dinner we tossed around some information.
“So what should I say? She works at the mall?” he asked innocently, while simultaneously plummeting my soul and self-confidence into the toilet.
“I don’t work for the mall, love muffin, I work as a consultant for a company that requires me to go to different stores to offer my superior consulting skills.” I answered calmly.
“Um…yeah, I’m not putting that.” he answered with a laugh.
“Well would you rather people think I am just a mall worker? Like I work at the LEGO Store or Taco Bell?” I demanded.
“Oh yes! Can I put that?” he asked earnestly.
“NO!” I screeched.
“How about if you say I am a blogger and people read my blog all across the world?” I said proudly.
“No Mom, nobody even knows or cares about a blog.” he said matter-of-factly.
There was no convincing him that his mother had done anything important or had anything important to offer. It was devastating.
I was dejected.
He was right after all. If I died tomorrow – what would my obituary say?
“What if our obituary just says we are a wife and a mother?” I asked my best friend desperately the next morning.
“That’s ok – we are making them good people…and I just know that they have a good dinner everyday and that when they go to bed at night their sheets are clean and they smell fresh.” she said simply.
That’s just not enough for me.
In the end, I spiraled into a deep depression when the best fact of Sam’s entire biography was about food.
Why can’t this make me happy?
I wish this was enough for me to feel good about, but delicious macaroni and clean sheets cannot possibly be why I was put on this earth.
At the end of the story, Sam, sensing my despair, added a note.
Am I just the worst mother?
Even though that helped to lessen the blow – I am still not satisfied with my place in the world.
Why can’t making pasta and being a good mother suffice?
I failed at being a wife and a mother and a productive member of society this week…
It can only go up from here!
Thankfully, I have the ability to drink wine and imagine myself to be quite spectacular during those shiraz-soaked moments…
WELL THE FACTS ARE WHAT THEY ARE – AND ONE THING I KNOW FOR SURE IS THAT I AM THE FUNNIEST MOM IN AMERICA SO PLEASE CLICK THE BANNER BELOW TO CONFIRM MY DELUSIONS…XO, LADY GOO GOO GAGA