Mother of the Year

I have taken one more giant step away from the trophy awarded to the Mother of the Year.

Allow me to share my shame...

A bit of background for those not in the know: I am notoriously late everywhere I go. It doesn’t help that I married someone who also suffers from the same affliction. Even when we have the best intentions, we always seem to be running behind. Well into adulthood, our kids will probably still have nightmares where they wake up screaming, “I don’t have time to deal with you this morning! Eat your frozen pancake or we’re going to be late!”

A great example: We chose our church based on its proximity to our house. It is only 2.81 miles from our driveway to the church parking lot -- and we are still the last ones to arrive at Sunday School (well, if we arrive at all).

In high school I once flunked my Economics class because it was first period and I was late nearly 50 percent of the time. I know, I know, what a shocker that I did not do well in a class involving math and money management. But, seriously, if I had actually been on time to school and had attended the class like I was supposed to I’m sure that I -- oh, screw it. I would have failed either way.

Anyway, there are times when I have striven to overcome this stigma and actually attempted to arrive somewhere on time. Yesterday morning was one of those times.

It was Mom’s Tea day at L’s preschool. She had been talking about it for weeks and was so excited that I was going to be coming to her class. She said there was a special song she was going to sing for me and a special gift that she’d made -- but I wasn’t supposed to ask her about any of it because it was all a big surprise. I was filled with the special Mother-Daughter glow that only comes with being the mother of a daughter.

For the record, there is a Mother-Son glow, too, but it is much dimmer. And it smells like pee.

I didn’t have to be there until 11:00 am, which, to some people, is already pretty late in the day. To me, however, anything before noon is “the morning,” and I hate “the morning.” But, I got the kids up, dropped them off at carpool and returned home with an entire hour-and-a-half to get ready for the party. L and Z’s preschool is at our church which, I believe I have mentioned, is only 2.81 miles away. Factoring in traffic lights and the occasional bike rider -- I don’t give a crap what your bumper sticker says, I don’t like to share so get your flippin’ bike-riding butt off my road -- then I knew I could get from my driveway to the church in about eight minutes.

I ate a quick breakfast, checked my email, Facebooked a bit and then headed upstairs to get ready. I didn’t dawdle in the shower -- I only washed and shaved what was necessary and appropriate for a preschool function. I applied my makeup and fancied-up my hair in record time. I even had time to touch-up the polish on my toes.

That minor act, however, would prove to be my downfall.

My sister-in-law called just as I was about to head downstairs and walk out the door. No biggie, I can talk and walk at the same time. While chatting, I ran the brush through my hair one more time, fastened my silver hoop earrings to my ears, gave myself the critical once-over in the full-length mirror and trotted off downstairs. I purposefully did not put my shoes on because I had just polished my toes and I knew that my cute BCBG black flip-flops with the black jeweled flowers where in the van on the floor in front of Z’s seat. They had been for nearly two weeks since I just kept failing to get them out and bring them back into the house. There are a lot of things that just “hang out” in the van for weeks at a time. Minivans are like that.

So, I continue to chat with my SIL while driving to the church and I pulled into the parking lot at 10:54. For those not good at math -- or perhaps those that flunked classes involving math -- that left me with six whole minutes to spare. I knew I could walk in calmly, take my time on the stairs and mingle in the hall outside the classroom with the other moms while we waited for the door to open and see the beautiful, smiling faces of our preschoolers so excited by our presence in their school.

The feeling of pride at my early arrival was just starting to waft over me when it was replaced by a sudden and horrible sense of dread. I slowly twisted my body around to look behind my seat -- and was greeted by an empty floorboard completely devoid of any type of footwear.

Just the afternoon before, I had cleaned out the car and had finally taken the BCBG flip-flops back inside and put them in my closet.

With a panicked, “OhmygodIhavetogo” salutation to my SIL, I snapped my cell phone closed and quickly raced through all my options. Can I get home and back in time? I am a pretty fast driver. Do I go in barefoot? That seems unsanitary. Isn’t there another pair of shoes in the way back of the van? Yes, but they are winter pumps and will not go with this blue sundress at all.

My final decision was to throw the car back in gear and peel out of the parking lot at a speed not recommended in the preschool handbook. I was thinking, “Be calm, but drive fast.” I knew I had six minutes to make the round trip. But even if God granted my fervently uttered Sam-Beckett-Quantum-Leap prayer to bend time, I still couldn’t make it to my house and back in that amount of time.

Still, I had to try. The thought of L standing there all by herself while all the other on-time moms embraced their children and sat down to their chicken salad puff pastry and fruit kabobs made my desire to run the hell over the bike rider who was in my way all the more intense. I swung into my driveway, slammed the car in park, raced into the house and up the stairs, grabbed the BCBG flip flops and was back in the driver’s seat in less than sixty seconds.

Now, my perfectly made-up face was flushed and my flawlessly arranged hair was sticking to my lip gloss, I was out of breath and no longer feeling the Mother-Daughter glow.

Each minute raced by on the digital dashboard clock and I arrived back in the parking lot at 11:03. Ordinarily being a few minutes (or even a half-hour) late would not have been that big of a deal. Well, to me anyway. But, I knew that I was dealing with an overly-emotional five-year-old who would not take too kindly to my tardiness. I jumped out of the van, grabbed the trouble-causing shoes and ran barefoot across the parking lot. I paused inside just long enough to slip on the flip flops and hurried down the stairs and toward L’s classroom. As I approached the room, I could see my precious baby girl, hunched over on the floor just inside the doorway, sobbing, while her teacher tried to console her.

People, I am not a sentimental person. I don’t do guilt and have the fabulously convenient gift of being able to talk myself out of feeling blame or remorse. But, the image of my daughter so heart-broken by the thought that her mother was not going to attend her special day really, really got to me. Even my powers of deflection could not overcome my feeling of total poo at that moment.

Her teacher looked up just as I rushed into the room and I heard her say, “See? I told you Mommy wouldn’t miss it!” Of course, we had the entire room’s attention at that point. I threw my arms around L and said, “You are not going to believe what your silly Mommy did. I came all the way over here and didn’t have any shoes! So, I had to race back to the house and get some. I probably should have just come in here barefoot!”

I earned the laughs of the other moms and L eventually dried her tears enough to help me decorate my foam teapot picture frame. One of the moms told me that L had only been crying for just a few seconds before I arrived. So, that made me feel a little bit better. We ended up having a lovely morning. I enjoyed hearing “I Love You a Bushel and a Peck,” picking out the portrait L drew of me (I knew it was me because of the blue eyes and eye lashes) and reading what she wrote about me in her All About Mom book. Apparently, she thinks I am 60-years-old, weigh 42 pounds and my favorite food is white Jenny Craig bars and skinny food. (Well, how else do you think I maintain my 42 pounds?)

My favorite line was “I am glad that I have my mom because...I really like her.”

And I suppose if this is the worst I do to L throughout her childhood, she should consider herself lucky.

At least she didn’t have parents who came to pick her up at middle school driving a mud-encrusted Blazer pulling a fishing boat while she shrank back in abject teenager horror and embarrassment at being seen in such a vehicle.

Yes, Dad, I still remember that...