Mother of the Year
Yesterday was Mother’s Day. Today I totally dropped the ball. Metaphorically speaking of course. Literally, I dropped a child.
Mother. Of. The. Year.
Acquiescing to toddler demands, and an intensely prideful desire to keep the pick-up line moving smoothly, I scooped Destroy up in my arms headed toward the car with his brother by my side.
Two steps later, in those 4-inch stiletto heels I have such an affinity for, the school speed bump got the better of me.
I felt my ankle roll. DOWN GOES MOMMY!
I felt myself fall in slow motion. Clutching Destroy.
We hit the ground.
I watched Destroy fall back. I heard his head hit the pavement.
Tears filled my eyes. My stomach turned. I did this.
I frantically reached for my son, trying to brace myself for the blood I was certain was pooling on the asphalt around us.
With a second gasping breath, he began to wail. There was no blood – just a bit of shock. On all our part.
I remained on the ground. Shaking. Holding both my crying boys. I wasn’t worried about the pick-up line anymore. Because everyone had gotten out of their cars to come see what the commotion was all about.
Another two steps into this disaster and Search ate it across the parking curb.
I was now in the midst of a full-blown freak out.
Another concerned mother rushed over. “Let me help you get to your car,” she offered sweetly. She could clearly see the building hysteria in my eyes.
Were you dropped on your head as a child? WHO DOES THAT?! We made it through an entire bonus post-natal trimester with no brain bleeds only for all our hard work to be undone by the ineptitude of a mother who thinks heels look more powerful?
“I don’t know how you do it. I could never survive with two,” the nice lady said sympathetically. I smiled politely back at her and her two children as the six of us walked toward the MomMobile.
I collapsed into guilty sobs the moment we were all secured in the car.
Destroy hopped right out of the car when we arrived home. “Hi Mommee,” he announced. “Keys.” He scampered off toward the front door, attempting to scale it in reach of the lock.
Turning back around he eyed me impatiently. “Baseball, please.”
Yeah. He’s fine.
My ankle’s a bit swollen and we three now have matching skinned knees. With Muppet band-aids to soothe our bruised egos limbs.
Thankfully, Mother’s Day was yesterday; this means I have 364 days to redeem myself. Or, possibly, Destroy’s already forgotten since he hit his head. It’s kind of like that week between Christmas and New Year’s. Since everyone knows that’s when Santa’s on vacation – so nobody’s watching who’s been naughty and who’s been nice.
And tomorrow? I’m wearing flats.