If you are a dreamer, come in,
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer...
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!

- Shel Silverstein, Where the Sidewalk Ends

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Got the flu? STAY HOME!

When my son mentioned the student teacher in his classroom went home ill one day last week, I thought little about it. Two days later when she returned to school, I politely inquired as to how she felt…”horrible” was her answer. With an intense focus on my to-do list for the day, I again did not stop to think about her germ invaded presence in my child’s life. Certainly she would not return to a classroom filled with six-year-olds if she were contagious with the flu. I did not think about this ill instructor-to-be until two days into a family trip (400 miles from home) when my little guy woke-up at 3am with a scorching fever and choking on the congestion pouring into his little chest. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to ring that childless woman’s neck!

Seven days later, we are home with the flu (me & the kiddo) and pneumonia (the kiddo.) Four other children in little man’s class are home too, invaded by Mrs. Jackson’s nasty germs. Why do people, especially non-mommies, do this? This is not a first year college student; this is her last semester before graduation. This time next year, she will be a teacher. She has spent the past four years interning in various schools, how is it that she never realized or no one has explained to her that when a teacher gets the flu, she should stay home?

For any child, the flu can be dangerous; but for my son, it can be deadly. Asthmatic, his respiratory system is permanently compromised; in a matter of a day, a tiny bit of congestion can turn into pneumonia. This is the second time in four months that my son has come in contact with a virus in his classroom that has turned into pneumonia for him.

Who do I blame? Who do I fuss at to make this stop? Is it the teacher’s fault for coming to school ill? She has to make an income too. Does the fault lye with the other parents who send their fever consumed children to school because they too have to earn an income? Who do I scream at for putting my son’s life in jeopardy, because their buck is obviously more important than a child’s health?

After returning home from the pediatrician yesterday, I emailed little man’s teacher in the hopes of politely persuading her to disinfect her classroom. Her response? “The flu is going around the entire school like wild fire.” Okay, so douse your room so that it too doesn’t go up in a flame of germs. Duh. No wonder one forth of her classroom has been out this week with the flu. So, you think that if I show-up at school Monday morning with a case of bleach, she’ll get the point?

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Biggest Loser Baby Belly Envy

As an over-weight stay-at-home-mommy, you would think that while watching NBC’s The Biggest Loser, my fat boodie would be cheering on a fav contestant. I am not. My eyes are not following the ever slimming bod of Tara, who I very much want to win and hope she creates the beautiful body to match her beaming personality. No, my gaze is planted solely on host Allison Sweeney’s ever expanding baby filled belly. Yes, I know she’s already given birth to baby girl Megan Hope way back in early January; but I can not pry my envious eyes away from her. My thirty-five year old eggs are aching to be fertilized!!!!

Just over a year ago, I gave my hubby the dumbest back-firing ultimatum…knock me up by my thirty-fifth birthday, or get those nads nipped. Neither occurred. On the contrary, my demand only provided a year of tears (me) and defensive arguments (him.) You see, our first and only child is six; he should have had a sibling long ago. That had been the plan, but somewhere along the way, my man decided one was enough. As the oldest of two children, he does not get the desperate desire an only child (me) has for a sibling (the four-year-old in me still clings to the hope that my mother, post-hysterectomy, will finally decide to give me a little brother.) Having yet to bury a parent, he just does not understand how lonely it is to stand by a father’s grave and know no one else in this world understands what it was like to be my parents’ child. Knowing someday, our son will bury us and stand alone by our graves breaks my heart. Okay, that and I’m dying to be pregnant and have yet another snotty, whining nose to wipe.

Not a late period goes by that I am not down on my knees bargaining with the holy guy that this month will be the month that in a moment of overwhelming passion, hubby didn’t pull out quite fast enough, and I will finally be the mom of two. Please God, Buddha, Allah, Brahma, Zeus, someone, anyone bless my hubby with super sperm whose sole mission is to create a mini-me.

P.S. Mr. President, I voted for you. I wish you the greatest success an American President has ever known; but could you please shut up and return me to my regularly scheduled programming? I was so not finished cheering on Tara or ogling Ally’s belly!

June, Martha, and Joan

By describing myself as a mediocre mother, in no way am I insinuating that there are not moments of mommy brilliance in my days; on the contrary, I often channel June and Martha with the best of them; but there are times, Ms. Crawford whispers enthusiastically in my ear. My child is clean, healthy, fed, well educated, and gets more time and attention from me than many children get from their moms; but in the hair pulling moments when I am sleep deprived, aggravated, and franticly bored with my mundane existence, I just want the little booger to leave me alone!

Welcome to my confessions of a mediocre mom! Who am I? No one, just some kid’s mom who needs to vent openly and honestly about this wild rollercoaster ride called motherhood. Don’t get me wrong, I love my son more than words could ever begin to describe. My life revolves around obsessing over his every waking moment. Is he happy, healthy, and challenged enough or too much? Is he in the right school, do I feed him enough veggies? Do I hug him enough or coddle too much? OMG! The continuously neurotic chatter in my mind never stops. Please join me on this fabulous journey; laugh with me, cry with me, and hopefully realize that June, Martha, and Joan all were mediocre at best, okay a bit nutty too; but then aren’t we all?