I know I can’t be the only one who practices accepting an award. I’m very gracious, and my speeches always include a big “Thank you to my fans!” I never forget get choked up, waiving my hand in front of my eyes to hold back the tears. I’ve won Grammy’s and Oscars. I’ve even won a Tony. I’ve tried practicing my speech for winning Mother of the Year too but, somehow, in my imagination I never quite make it to the podium. I can’t say I’m surprised, though. There are 10 very distinct reasons I will likely lose the award before I ever have a chance to hold the golden pacifier, and I am painfully aware of each one.
I Will win one day, but that will only be because they award the mother that I am In theory.
I can hear it now,
“And the mother of the year award goes to, Xavia Omega!”
My name will sound so eloquent rolling off the M.C.’s tongue. Only I won’t hear her say it. I’ll be outside in the hallway, because I’ll be running #1 LATE; my clan and I will have just arrived.
I will quickly compose, though, and pretentiously strut up to the podium very pleased with myself, Something like a peacock I imagine, but just as they extend the trophy to me…
My youngest daughter will begin to whine loudly that she’s #2 SO HUNGRY. I can assure you she was given 3 options for lunch, and offered a snack on the way. Even so, she will fix her puppy dog eyes just so, her deceivingly petite frame may even Quiver, and you’ll swear I don’t feed her.
At that moment, my son will surely share the story of the time I #3 LEFT HIM at the rec center after volleyball. He won’t mention that I only got to the edge of the parking lot, or that I usually never have my kids with me on game nights. He won’t tell anyone it was all a mistaken 49 seconds of autopilot. No, he’ll dramatically describe for you, the 5 seconds he was outside, Traumatized by the lonely blanket of white that surrounded him. He didn’t know if he’d ever see me again, but then, through the snowflakes, he saw my headlights because I turned right back around!
At this point the committee members will begin exchanging glances, then it will happen. My oldest daughter will shout out, “Mom, you look Damn beautiful”! I will have no excuse for her #4 LANGUAGE but I will smile because, after all, I’m sure I will look Damn beautiful when I go to accept my award.
The crowd will begin to snicker and the room will smell like “Second thoughts”. Everyone will take a slightly closer look at me and the kids.
They’ll notice my son has on short sleeves and they won’t see a sweater or jacket on his chair, even though its January. They’ll wonder, “why is he #5 DRESSED so INAPPROPRIATELY?” Of course, they will not have the footage from earlier when I told him 5 times to get something warm on, nor will there be a viral YouTube video of the 7 minute earful he received in the car when I finally noticed he never listened. And, if the odds are ever in my favor, I’m sure he’ll have the sniffles as well.
Then their attention will shift once again to my daughter who, I’m sure, will be Decorated in band aids and boo boos. I do not #6 PUT MY HANDS ON HER, as it would appear, that just happens to be how she rolls; with a Murphy’s Law kind of swagger.
At this point not only will I smell second thoughts, but a dirty diaper as well, because it will only serve to compliment the moment that the baby will drop a Shadoobie. At least one person will wonder how long he’s been sitting in it, because I’m sure the little guy will be #7 STINKY. My mothers intuition will telepathically pick up on this one person, and it will piss me off, and I will shout out, “He just pooped. Just now!” This will probably make me look a little #8 CRAZY. Just because you always need a cherry on top, I’m sure as I’m shouting he’ll start crying. I’ll start lactating and the ring around my breast will, no doubt, make me look a little #9 DIRTY & UNKEMPT.
I will begin to Laugh hysterically because, well because the irony will just tickle me so deep down. I will then make my way to the restroom, #10 UNPREPARED, because I forgot the diapers and wipes in the car. My exit will be nothing short of theatrical. My ducklings will surely follow on my heels, and I think it’s safe to say We won’t return; through the eyes in the back of my head I could see everyone on the committee all shake their heads a unanimous, “No”.
As we are leaving, I imagine I will pass a sympathetic mother who offers a well intended, “Better luck next year”. At that point I’ll know she’s just the nanny, because any mom who just watched that trail of flames would know, I pretty much Ruined my chances for future consideration as well!
*As my 2 year Blogaversary approaches I wanted to jazz up some of my earlier posts. This is one of my favorites. I hope you enjoy! 🙂