Our family hit a few milestones this week. We moved our oldest to Indiana University, and our youngest started preschool. We also have a daughter embarking on her first year of high school, and our oldest son is tackling his Junior year. Last, but not least, we have one other preschooler celebrating her fifth birthday. In the midst of all of this, we are hanging drywall, installing floors, flying to D.C. for a business presentation, and something else. What was it? Oh yeah! Hubby and I are celebrating our twentieth wedding anniversary!
Needless to say, this week has been both physically and emotionally exhausting. At the moment, I am sitting in my car, outside of the preschool, attempting to pull an article together before the little chatterers fill my back seat. I love sharing in their excitement from the day, and looking at all of their papers. But beyond that, I kind of stink at being a preschool mom.
You’d think by the time my fifth child entered preschool, I would have pulled myself together, but I’m still figuring things out. It probably would have helped if I’d gone to orientation, and I fully intended to do so, but Red Lobster was calling my name.
Sixteen years ago, when we enrolled our now college freshman in preschool, I was a nervous wreck. I had all the typical concerns: Would she cry when I dropped her off? Would she be corrupted by some wayward four-year-old who was already allowed to watch PG movies? And most importantly, would the other moms like me?
I really wanted to blend in, but that was hard to do while driving an old, beat up, blue car with one yellow door. The colorful ribbon tied into a bow across the top of my head didn’t help either. (Don’t ask. It was a rough fashion period for me.)
I remember one day, sitting in my big, ugly car, waiting for the kids to return from the pumpkin patch. I looked in the rearview mirror (which was secured with duct tape) and noticed a flake of dandruff in my bangs. I brushed at it with my fingers but instead of falling out, it multiplied. Before I knew it, my scalp was flaking all over the place.
In pulled Ms. Perfect Mom’s brand new SUV. Ms. Perfect mom had four children, but still comfortably wore size six jeans. Her husband played pro football, and they had met while she was cheerleading. She decorated stunning cupcakes long before it was the fad. She was so creative she actually presented each student with a puzzle created from their own school picture. And she never, ever wore a ribbon in her hair.
On this particular day, my daughter was in the group of children that rode to the pumpkin patch with Ms. Perfect Mom. I watched as they unloaded beautiful, round, orange pumpkins, dreaming of how my sweet little girl and I would have such fun decorating one. Ms. Perfect Mom began walking in my direction, so I gave one last swipe at the dandruff situation, and started shoving old McDonald’s sacks under the seat. I cranked down the window on my yellow door, and she smiled brightly as she said, “All the kids picked out pumpkins, but your daughter chose this!”
Through the window came the ugliest gourd God has ever created. Bless my unique child’s little heart! There was only one thing that could have made the scene more endearing. That was the friendly mention of the fact that on the way to the pumpkin patch, my little darling had punched Ms. Perfect Mom’s son.
Things never got better. Even with nineteen years of mothering experience, I still stink at preschool. In those early days, I cared. I cared a lot. But now, I don’t care anymore. Preschool is fleeting. If I don’t decorate perfect cupcakes, or remember which direction to pull into the pick-up line, my child won’t remember. If it dawns on me at the last minute that I’m supposed to have my child’s name boldly displayed on a piece of paper in the front window of my car so the teacher knows which vehicle to deposit them into, it’s okay. Even if that means that my child’s name is frantically scribbled onto a piece of scrap paper and tucked under the windshield wiper, while all the other moms use large, die-cut letters, decorated with beads and sparkles, and hang them from the rearview mirror.
It’s all okay because soon enough, we’ll be packing these kids off to some university. Until then, I proudly wear my title of Ms. Not So Perfect Yellow Door Dandruff In My Hair Just Winging It As We Go Size 14 Mom. Hopefully, the other college moms will like me!
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