“No.” I pop Cam into his chair and go off to make him some cereal. “Today is Daddy’s birthday.”
“Lordy, lordy, Dad is forty!” Alex gives up the fight for the hoodie and sings around the bite of toast in her mouth. At least they didn’t blow the toaster up this time.
“I made him a card.” Trent proudly waves a folded piece of construction paper. “Who punched your eye?” With the way he’s seen Alex and Lucas fight, of course he thinks my shiner is from a punch. “Was it Daddy because you wanted wear his jacket?”
“Great card, T. No, Daddy would never punch me, even over a Batman hoodie.” I glare at Alex and Lucas. “Now, I need you guys to school on time so I can get back home to meet the furniture delivery guy.” I hand Cam his cereal only for him to take the spoon out, lick it, and start picking out the berries with his fingers. “Right after school we only have two hours for the house to be clean and the patio ready for the grill. Alex and Jordan can take care of the patio; Lucas and Trent can take all the toys upstairs. Cam can help inside. Got it?” Much grumbling ensues.
Breakfast goes on with me signing folders and rounding up shoes. At seven thirty-five we all run out the door, Cam on my back talking non-stop about some new monster truck on TV, and Trent wearing one red shoe and one blue one. We’re only five minutes late today. At least he remembered shoes. The schools are only two blocks away, so we usually walk. It’s fall, but not cold yet and it means I get a little exercise. Two blocks with a thirty-four-pound kid is really like walking a mile. I kiss all of them, except Jordan, who gets a fist bump before they scatter between the elementary and middle schools.
“Are they all yours?” A voice behind me makes me jump and my phone beeps at the same time. I shift Cam to get my phone from my waistband and turn to face the mom at the same time.
“All but the middle one. I saw him in a buggy at Walmart and thought he was cute.” I smile at the woman, finally looking her over. Tight leggings, bright running shoes, snug tank top, and a perfectly positioned pony tail. Her shiny black SUV is on the curb behind her. Typical of the area we live in.
“You’re funny.” She giggles, but I don’t. We can’t go out to dinner, to the store, or even to the park without at least one person asking that same question. It gets old really fast. “I bet you stay so busy; you certainly have your hands full.” Two more statements I hear on a regular basis. All she needs to do now is ask if we’re done, or ask if we know what causes it. “I can barely keep up with Aiden.” Blonde super mom keeps talking about her son and his extracurriculars while I check my phone.
The Husband: You looked so hot laying there this morning. If Cam hadn’t been there, I’d have woken you up with my hands between those thighs, and I know the Lazy Boy is asking too much. See ya tonight.
My face heats up and I swallow, really happy the monkey on my back can’t read yet. Aiden’s mom is looking at me like I missed something important. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Are you planning on anymore?” She smiles innocently, having no idea how damn annoyed I get with that question.
“Maybe. It was nice talking to you, but I need to get this guy home.” I point to the kid on my back and start down the sidewalk. I try not to get irritated when people ask me a million questions like that, but these days, no one has a whole litter of kids. We’re like a walking freak show.
At home, I look around the disaster of a house and try to decide where to start. There are shoes all over the living room, including the two-unmatched pair mirroring the ones on Trent’s feet. Cam is on second breakfast, attempting to fork eggs into his mouth and refusing to use a spoon. I kick into overdrive. In fifteen minutes, I have the shoes in the closet, have swept the mud room, living room, and the steps.
“Mommy!” Cam’s voice jerks me out of my mini-celebration to check on his waffles. I round the corner and the broom leaves my hand. My little angel is not in his seat eating waffles. Instead, he’s sitting on the counter, kitchen scissors in hand and surrounded by dark ringlets in a puddle of syrup. Oh. My. God. I can see the headline now “Mom ignores child. Child cuts off ear with kitchen scissors.”
“Cam!” My shriek is covered by the doorbell. “Hang on!” I shout and run for my scissor-wielding child. In one movement, I have the scissors tossed on the opposite counter and Cam popped on my hip. It doesn’t take long for me to realize how sticky he is. I’m talking if I threw him, he’d stick to the wall. The doorbell rings again.
“I get it!” Cam starts wiggling, shoving away from me to go answer the door.
“No way, kiddo!” I dash for the door, sticky Cam in tow and jerk the door open to find a portly man holding a clipboard and a furniture truck behind him. Score one for super mom. The only thing my husband requested for the last six holidays has been a La-Z-Boy. Anniversary, Christmas, and birthday. A list of wife-induced disasters have set us back on that purchase, but I finally pulled through. Working from home three days a week scored me enough cash to pull it off. No new tires from running over the curb, no hospital bill from stepping on a rake, and no new dishwasher after Trent put the wrong soap in. I knock on some wood before mentally running through the rest of the set-backs. New stove after I started a grease fire, another medical bill when I decided to eat pavement while teaching Alex to skateboard, and the new couch from the day I brought Lucy home. Out of six, four of the La-Z-Boy preventing disasters were me. This time, I won’t let anything stand in the way of my husband and his navy-blue recliner.
Cam is talking incessantly in my ear while I try not to focus on the fact that his hair is chopped in a million places and both of us are covered in syrup. There goes part of my day. Instead of extra clean up time, we get to hit up the closest salon so someone can fix the disaster on my child’s head, or at least try to do it myself. The man has me sign and waddles off to unload the world’s best present. I yell for him to just put the recliner in the living room and strip Cam all the way to the sink, only glancing back to see the delivery man rolling a cream-colored recliner toward me.
“Whoa!” I wave my free hand, holding Cam in the sink. “That is not what I ordered.”
The chair drops with a thud just inside my door. “Says here ya did.” He waves the clipboard I signed. “La-Z-Boy, Sandy Beach, and your signature, Ma’am.” No. No. No! Cam squirms from the sink and his soaked body collides with mine.
“It was supposed to be Sea Breeze Blue.” I try to stay calm and not hand the delivery man his head on a plastic Sponge Bob platter.
“You want me to take it back?” He smirks.
“No! Just leave it.” I glance down at my sticky, wet, and botched kiddo. “This is not my day, Cam.”
Big brown eyes look back up at me. “I need to pee.” From the mouths of babes. I let Cam down to streak through the house and up the stairs, past the delivery man.
The guy has the nerve to cock an eyebrow at me when my naked kid passes him. “Hey, don’t judge me, buddy, you brought the wrong damn chair!” Without a word, he wheels the dolly back out and slams the door behind him. I try to be positive, remembering that Rick didn’t actually tell me what color chair he wanted, but the quiet from upstairs has me dashing for my mischievous little hellion. If Cam had been the first kid, I’d have tied my tubes thirteen years ago.
Fortunately, Cam is happily playing with bubbles in the sink after a successful potty trip, so I sneak back down, stepping over Lucy to finish the big clean up. My first task is the sticky kitchen and the hair Cam cut. I can worry about evening up his hack job later. Now, I have a house to clean and meat to thaw for a very important party. A pass by the mirror in the mudroom reminds me to attempt to cover my blackeye at some point as well. Pictures will be taken, and I look like I lost a boxing match. With only four more hours of school, I have my work cut out for me. The black eye gets put on the to-do list with the kid shave down.
“Whoa!” Jordan freezes as soon as he opens the front door. “It’s so clean.” The other kids shove around him and Trent takes a deep breath.
“It smells good.” They all look at me confused. So sue me, I’m never going to be on the cover of Good Housekeeping, nor will I be mistaken for Martha Stewart.
“I am capable of cleaning.” I give my children the mom glare and head toward the patio.
“What happened to Cam’s hair?” Alex rubs a hand over the prickles of Cam’s hair.
“An accident, now, you guys pick up the yard and I’ll get a snack ready. Dad gets home in two hours.” The chorus of groans follow me up the steps to put Cam down for a late nap. The poor kid fought me thorough the haircut, but with lots of bribery, three suckers, and a bowl of ice cream later the kid had a shaved head. When I say shaved, I mean Army ready. With little fight, Cam collapses onto my pillow, in my bed, again, and passes out.
Downstairs on the patio, things are less productive. Alex has Lucas in a weird arm hold, making him sing the My Little Pony song while Jordan records and Trent laughs. I’m tempted to join in the laughter, but what kind of mother would I be if I did?
“Let him go, Alex! How did we get from clean the yard, to … whatever that was?” I demand, biting back a laugh at my eleven-year-old singing a song from my childhood. Alex releases the hold on her older brother, and Jordan shoves his phone away. So much for being the mature one. Before she can answer, the doorbell rings. I don’t have to check the peep hole to know who it is.
“Gram’s here.” Jordan starts playing the video of his younger brother singing while laughing at me. “She’s going to flip over Cam’s hair. Or Cam’s no hair.” It’s no secret that Grams and I are not besties by any means. Plus, she’s insanely early. Don’t get married to someone with a mom, just don’t. It’s not worth the mother-in-law agony. I steady myself and head for the door, trying to hold on to my little Alex making her big brother sing My Little Pony instead of my monster-in-law at the door. The doorbell rings three more times before I even make it into the house.
Two hours later, the whole crowd has moved their cars to the school, the yard is decorated and my brother, Sean, has Jordan manning the grill. Not only am I hostess of the year, but best gift giver and wife of the century for pulling it off. Maybe the chair isn’t the right color, but I am about to pull off a surprise party and I’ve only had to break up three more kid brawls since the pony song. On top of that, only every single guest has asked how I blacked my eye. None of them seem willing to believe Cam inadvertently caused the accident. Everyone has commented oh-so-politely on Cam’s shaved head, but I can’t tell the truth so I blame it on gum in the hair. Each person has their own gum removal recipe that I was obviously too stupid to try, but anything is better than admitting I wasn’t in the room while my kid played with scissors. It’s a good day.
I hear Rick’s car door and snatch up Cam as he’s about to sink his teeth into Trent for not sharing the Nintendo DS, and dash for the door, telling everyone to wait in the yard on the way. Rick will expect a quiet dinner in his new chair, not all of our family and friends in the yard.
I pop Cam down with a coloring book and take a seat in the chair, waiting for him to come in. “Amelia?” my husband’s voice echoes through the mud room.
“In here!” I shout, heart thundering in anticipation of the absolute best birthday gift ever. I can’t wait to see the look on his face.
Rick rounds the corner and at first he looks confused, then he gets that smile. “Is that for me?” I nod. “I’m not talking about the chair.” He starts by taking off his polo and tossing it. I’m suddenly at an impasse. I can ruin the surprise by tipping him off, or I can risk his little strip tease going a bit longer. Option two is too embarrassing, so I hop up and rush toward him. Before I can even speak, he has me slammed back in the recliner, body pressed against mine while I fight to make him stop kissing long enough to talk. No such luck.
“The kids,” is all I manage in the time he leaves my lips to take off his shirt.
“They seem quiet.” Rick kisses down my neck and straddles me, grinding all he’s working with into my stomach. This is why we have five kids. When I try to argue, he covers my mouth with a big, rough hand. “No talking. It’s my birthday.” This is not going to end well, and as much as I enjoy a few seconds of horny, teenager make out on the new recliner, we have twenty guests outside. “I was thinking today, now that Cam is getting older, maybe we should round it off to an even six. Or at least practice,” Rick growls seductively in my ear, almost masking the sound of the door opening. My eyes nearly bulge out of my head, and I swat his face at the same time twenty people plus our five kids scream from next to us.
“Happy Birthday!”
Rick is half naked, hand over my mouth, straddling me in the new recliner. The worst part of the whole thing is that my idiot husband just threatened to get me pregnant yet again. “Maybe number six can wait?” In one motion, Rick jumps off me to face the crowd and jerks his shirt back over his head. His mother is at the front of the crowd looking as mortified as I feel with her hand over Trent’s eyes. I could kill my husband, birthday or not.
“Surprised?” I mutter from my spot on the recliner.
“Very.” Rick finally looks at me when my brother lets out a wolf whistle and Jordan starts making gagging sounds. “Did you know you have a black eye?” Cam picks that moment to come running from the middle of the crowd.
“Daddy! It’s you birthday!” He leaps at Rick who catches him midair.
“Hey, buddy! Did you get a haircut?” His eyes dart to me, and he gets the mom glare. He’s not getting kid number six, or any practice in with questions like that after the day I had. “It looks great! How did you pull this off?”
“Your chair is the wrong color, the dog hasn’t been out all day, Cam cut his hair, and my eye is black.” I shrug. “I’m super mom.” I’m rewarded with a kiss on my forehead and Cam licks my cheek.
Rick wipes the slobber from my face. “Let’s go party.”
So, that’s exactly what we do.
Just Another Day at the Park
Kate Anslinger
Just Another Day at the Park
“Mommy! Mommy!” Emily’s voice pierces my deep sleep, interrupting my precious one-on-one snuggles with baby Charlotte who is just four weeks old. I instantly remember one of those older mothers preaching to me about how going from one to two kids is like having four. It never made sense to me before, but now I get it. It isn’t two times harder with two kids—it’s four times harder. Or at least that’s what it feels like when you’re trying to bond with a baby while trying hard not to hurt the feelings of your hormonal “three-nager.”
I had forgotten how easy babies were since Emily turned three. I’ll take middle-of-the-night wakeups, spit-up and diaper blowouts over my toddler’s constant need to be reminded about how awesome she is. Don’t get me wrong…she is awesome. Ask anyone who has the pleasure of hanging out with her outside of the household. It’s not surprising that she captures the attention of strangers so easily…she is ridiculously cute and sassy with that unique strawberry-blond hair and those pretty blue eyes. All it takes is one little smile from her and cashiers are handing over rolls of stickers. Little do they know, that sweet grin can transform into a devilish scowl in seconds. Just tell her she can’t play with the hose for hours in the backyard and you, too, can witness her turn into a tsunami of madness. As Alicia Keys’ hit song says, “That Girl is on Fire.”
“Coming!” I respond in the nicest tone possible, because if I show even a little angst in my voice, she will start screaming and telling me I’m mean. Dealing with her high and low emotions is like walking on eggshells all day every day. Imagine having to tiptoe quietly around your own home in an attempt to avoid stepping on an IED. She could explode at any given second.
As if she’s onto her sister’s ways, Charlotte is now awake, bright-eyed and looking around as if anticipating her sister’s next outburst. Only a month old and this kid already knows it’s best to not piss off Emily. I roll off the bed while balancing Char-bear in one arm, mashing her head
up against my milk-stained shirt. I don’t breastfeed and I never have, but I have the luxury of leaky nipples, which have stained all my awesome “in-between” shirts that are baggy enough to cover up my flabby postpartum belly. I brace myself for the inevitable exchange I’m about to have with Emily. I can always guarantee there will be some sort of argument this time of day. She is not a morning person. I already feel sorry for her future husband because there is a good chance he’ll have to keep from speaking for at least the first hour after she wakes up every morning…if she even lets him share the bed with her.
I take a deep breath before I knock on her door. She has trained me to knock before entering, as if she’s already trying to hide some sketchy teen behavior or drug paraphernalia. For whatever reason, all the doors in our house have locks on the outside. Maybe the mom who lived here before me had the brilliant idea to lock her toddler in the bedroom and she was simply paving the way for me. I lightly tap on the door, as if I’m a doctor knocking in warning before entering an exam room. I’m armed with patience, deep breaths and positive vibes, on a mission to start the day off right and ready to tackle any tantrum that comes my way.
“Come in,” Emily says in the sweetest voice possible, making me believe she’s the angel all those unknowing strangers think she is.
“Good morning, baby girl!” I muster up my most chipper voice and ease my way into her room, prepared for her morning mood swings. She’s hiding under the covers, ready to play our daily game of “find me.”
“Hmmm…where is Emily? I can’t find her,” I say as I sit down on her purple comforter between an Elsa doll and a stuffed troll. I feel something poke me in the butt cheek and find a plastic fork underneath the blanket, apparently left over from one of the many tea parties I’ve sat through. As if revealing the surprise of a lifetime, she flips the comforter off her head. I go along with her antics like I’m trained to do.
#MomFail: 24 Authors & 24 Mom-Coms Page 28