on being sick...

A coupla weeks ago, at the close of our morning rush to get everyone out the door on time, RyBread stumbled to the couch, curled up in mortified pain, and moaned, "I think I'm gonna throw up..."

Twenty minutes later, she did.

Dang. The Barfs. I would change 2897 diapers 17 times each if I never had to deal with throw-up again. Luckily I don't have a particularly sensitive gag reflex, but the Barfs are the one thing to truly try that part of me.

Okay, so really it wasn't so bad; she made the bucket every time. I played my part well, I thought, present for all but one of the barfs, holding her hair back, rubbing her back, and handing her a clean, warm wash cloth when she was all done to clean up the yucks dribbling off her chin. That's a nice mommy, right?

It reminded me, though, of a time when I didn't really make the nice mommy. Shocker. Poor Morgs was the victim this time, and it had been a long day. She had felt terrible all day, with a fever and everything, but she hadn't actually thrown up.

She had languished most of the day up in my room so I could check on her, but I moved her down to the TV at dinner so I could make something for the rest of us to eat. See? I make dinner sometimes.

I assumed, of course, that I was safe sending her down to the brand new couch and the brand new carpet, since she just had a fever and felt yucky in general, right? Silly me. I was minutes from placing dinner on the table when I heard the 5 words that can strike fear into the heart of any mother: "Mom! I'm gonna throw up!!"

What do I do in these brief moments before the inevitable mess? Rush down with a bucket and warm wash cloth in hand, ready to assist and calm the sick child? Pause for a split-second to sympathize with the poor little pre-schooler on the verge of experiencing the yuckiest thing about mortal life? No. Not me.

"Run for the tile, Morgs! Run for the tile!!"

That's right. Save the carpet. Save the couch.

Forget the kid.

All's fair in love and barf.

not-quite mother-of-the-year... okay, not even close...

Mothers Day is fast approaching. I've spent the last several days putting together my ideas that will further cement me into the mortar of sibling rivalry as Mom's Favorite. Despite what my brothers and sisters would tell you, I'm certain I achieved that title years ago, and everything I do now just solidifies that position. Really. Don't bother asking them. What do they know?

I have an incredibly wonderful, beautiful mother. I don't think I realized it half as much when I was still under her constant care as I do now. It's the ironic thing about motherhood: By the time you figure out how completely amazing your mom is, you've moved out and started your own family.

That's what did it of course -- the starting my own family bit. I never really saw the noble character of my mother until I became a mother myself; and one day in the midst of changing diapers, driving carpool, this morning's cocoa pebbles still floating in the soup bowls I need for dinner right now, the endless piles of laundry that never seem to go away no matter how many loads I manage to push through in an hour, the science project gone bad in the dining room, and forgetting to put the tooth fairy money under the pillow -- again, I see clearly the incredible ability, talent, and moxie my mom has. ...WAY more incredible than anything I possess.

Last year for Mother's Day, the graduating high school seniors were asked to stand up in church and give tributes to their mothers. Those were good mothers. We were regaled with wonderful tales of these women; one who never made her child wake up to the sound of an alarm clock, but instead quietly (and I'm sure drippingly lovingly) whispered into her son's ear to bring him into wakefulness each morning. (At my house my kids have a choice of "buzzer" or "shock beep.") Another mother always let her daughter have the last piece of cake. (For my children, that would go something more along the lines of "Mom, can I..?" "BACK OFF! This piece is MINE! I MADE this cake, and so help me, I will EAT the LAST PIECE if I want!") The queen bee of mothers spent hours staying up late waiting for her daughter to come home from a night out, whereupon they would stay up for hours longer talking and laughing together. (My kids, quite frankly, aren't allowed out of the house past 7:30 pm, since I'm lucky if I can keep my eyes open past 8:12. Forget hours of talking and laughing. I'm already LONG gone.)

I can sum up my feelings at the end of that meeting with one word: Huh.

Imagine that. In one hour I realized my place in the Mother's Day Tributes of the future will be somewhere in the "My mom let us eat all the cold cereal we wanted" realm. I'll be forever immortalized as the one who, if nothing else, made dinner two of every seven evenings. I'm not so sure my children will rise up and call me blessed so much as loud. Don't believe me?

Recently Morgs was asked to give a talk in Primary. Her topic? Mothers. Golden. I wrote down several fill-in-the-blank statements for her that, read in succession, would make a beautiful tribute to a glorious mother. They were statements such as, "I love my mom because..." and "My mom teaches me..."

Really, she filled in all the blanks as if I'd coached her. It was perfect. Until she read aloud her answer to "When I'm hungry, my mom..."

Obviously I'm going for "makes me my favorite dinner, with healthy, fresh food from each of the food groups, and sometimes even a heavenly dessert."

Instead, I got, "When I'm hungry, my mom tells me a list of what I can make myself to eat."

...Now that's a good mom.

Looks like the jig's up. I'll never make Mother of the Year now.

Whatever.

Happy Mother's Day anyway.