Nope, not me. Or the Handy Man. Or our sons.
But, I can see how you thought it was us.
I saw her on TV. She served great snacks, threw fabulous birthday parties, and knew all the 'in' music. She was stylish and fashionable, and so were her kids. She was 'Cool Mom' and I knew that someday, I would be her.
Kids would hang out at our house. My backyard would be a magnet for groups of kids. We would have water fights and late nights. It would be awesome.
Guess what? Reality rarely lives up to TV.
I'm the mom who forgets it's early Friday until it's too late and I have to hurry home to find my first grader sobbing on the front porch. (Twenty minutes isn't forever, people.)
I'm the mom who doesn't send in the book order, so my kids have to look longingly at the piles of books the other students get.
Moms who volunteer for field trips and plan amazing parties? Not me. Room mother? Oh, heaven forbid!
But, every now and then, my desire to be Cool Mom surfaces and I try. I really do try.
Take Sunday night. My boys had discovered the sleeping bags I'd stowed under their bed. (What happens when some of your kids leave the nest, then fly back home? Serious re-arranging. I haven't given up my extra dresser, yet, though!) Anyway, they found the bags.
What do you do with slick sleeping bags? Slide down the stairs, of course.
My first reaction, the one my gut demanded I make, was to run into the hall and
But, my Cool Mom hopes surfaced and I said to my husband, "I remember doing that when my mom left the house. It was so much fun." And, I snuggled closer to him and listened to the boys as they squealed down the stairs.
The bumping went on for a while and I smiled to myself. Someday, my kids will gather as adults and talk about their childhoods.
"Remember when Mom let us go down the stairs in sleeping bags?"
"Yeah, that was great! Our mom rocks!"
"We're so lucky we have such a cool mom!"
I almost got teary as I imagined their future reminiscing.
Then, I heard it. The cry.
Not the 'I-bumped-my-toe-and-it-hurt-a-little' cry. It was THE CRY.
Max came running into the room, blood flowing from his mouth.
"Noah hit me!"
To this Noah shook his head.
"OK, you guys are DONE!"
Noah ran crying to his room while I took Max to the bathroom. I inspected his mouth. Nothing that was hospital worthy-whew. He'd cut his upper and lower lip, his tongue, and several teeth were bleeding. I checked, none of them were loose. I gave him a wet washcloth and went in to smooth things over with Noah. "Not your fault, kiddo. It was an accident." He whimpered a bit, but felt better.
We all went downstairs, Max nursing his mouth, Noah wiping tears and me realizing my dream was still just beyond reach.
"Remember when we were kids and we rode the sleeping bags down the stairs?"
"What was Mom thinking?"
(I need this shirt. Maybe for Mother's Day?)