April 26th, 2000
We can send a man to the moon, which is super since I have booked
my husband on the next shuttle, but we cannot seem to make a more tolerant carpet. I can hear some of you now muttering
"ScotchGuard" under your breath. I have
ScotchGuard, but I have yet to spill any scotch on it so I'm not sure it works. Just give me time though; I should
be drinking heavily by Christmas.
I am beginning to think that ancient man had it down best. Dirt on the floor, dirt for a bed, little bit of dirt
for breakfast. No hard choices. No difficult decisions. I bet dirt never stained or ended up in the primitive sink
floating about amid bloated Cheerios.
I have spots on my carpet that I can't even recognize, and I don't want to know. There are enough small beads embedded
in there from a sewing box explosion to make a life-sized mosaic of the Washington Monument and I have cereal clinging
desperately to fibers as if they are attached to them by odd-green umbilical cords. One of the neighborhood kids
is missing. We're still hoping for a miracle.
But let's be brave and face facts, shall we fellow mothers? No one cares. And at a certain point, we reach a level
of apathy of our own. I am thinking of going on strike.
"Mom! There's a button missing on my shirt."
"It was probably embarrassed to be the only button left. It's okay. You can get a new shirt."
"Can you sew another one on?"
"Nope. I am on strike. You'll just need to call the union to discuss my contract."
I am sure you can see the eyes rolling now.
"Moooooooooooom. There is NO union for mothers."
"Well, that's just going to make it twice as hard for you to negotiate, isn't it? Here, take this extra picket
and march around the coffee table with me."
My house is laughable. At any given moment it is as if Toys R Us has exploded and my living room has fallen victim
to its aftermath. I am so adept at answering phones while pole-vaulting over Barbie accessories that I am now lobbying
to make it a new summer Olympic event. I'm sure I'll take the gold. I can see myself now, head held high and proud,
fingering my medal with tears misting my eyes as I stand triumphantly saluting my national anthem.
And then some kid will run out of the crowd clutching a button in his hand yelling, "Mom! I need you to sew
Life is just not fair to mothers