by Melody Bowen
Once upon a time (I always wanted to start a story with those words), this was my favorite joke:
That night, as the princess dined sumptuously on a repast of lightly sauteed frog legs seasoned in a delicate white wine and onion cream sauce, she chuckled and thought to herself, "I don't f&#*ing think so..."
I could never sink my teeth into that idea. Not for me. No way. No, sir. Now, maybe I have to trade in my serving of frog legs with onion cream sauce. Now maybe I have to eat a little plate o' crow instead.
Now, don't panic. I'm not thinking anything hasty here. I haven't suddenly had such a change of heart that I'm ready to trade in my briefcase for a diaper bag. I'm simply admitting that I finally get it; I admit that I at last see the appeal of having that kind of life. And it's all because of a flood this past weekend. (Yes, a flood.)
My wonderful friend Doug (remember the "Knight in Shining Doc Martens"?) has two children, a 7-year-old boy and a 12-year-old girl. His 12-year-old will be 13 shortly, and her birthday slumber party was last Friday night. I joined Doug and the kids (all six of them!) for the birthday party last Friday at his house and had a fantastic time. A really, really fantastic time. We played, laughed, opened gifts (including the birthday girl's new go-cart!), and generally had a fabulous time. Birthday Girl's little friends seemed to like me really well (one said I "rocked", the other said she thought I was, quote, "so-o-o awesome!"). It was a great feeling. And my sweet little Birthday Girl -- pardon me, my sweet Birthday Young Lady -- hugged me and told me she loved me and thought I was the best. It was *wonderful*. A real warm fuzzy kind of evening.
Later, I headed home after telling Doug I'd come back on Saturday morning to make breakfast for everyone (I couldn't leave him all alone with six kids for the day!). The next morning, I called to see if he was ready for me to come over to cook, and he told me that one of the little girls had taken a shower in an upstairs bathroom that apparently had some plumbing problems (note: this is a new house, and this bathtub hadn't even been used yet!), and all the water drained down into the floor, ruined all the upstairs carpet, came dripping down through the crown mouldings downstairs, through kitchen light fixtures, and flooded a three-week-old hardwood floor in Doug's living and dining rooms. Ruined. All ruined. Doug sounded positively suicidal.
I jumped in the car and headed over to do what I could. To make a very long story a tiny bit shorter, everything was under control when I got there (flood restoration guys and insurance agents were already swinging into action), so everything was mostly under control (and Doug wasn't having a complete panic attack, which I think is *really* commendable). I cooked breakfast for six kids, then sent them outside to play. Doug and I had breakfast together as well, then he headed out to work on the go-cart some more, and I made breakfast for Doug's father as well. It was quite the little Susie Homemaker morning, and I'm delighted to say that it felt just... well, wonderful. Amidst the chaos going on in the house from the flood, the constant roar of six children yelling and giggling, the dog and the cat begging for their share of the breakfast, I felt really happy. Normal, even. It's a little scary to admit how good it really felt.
The clincher came much later in the day, long after I'd gone to a family outing in the afternoon with my mother and returned to my humble little abode with my three little pugs. I was having some cheese dip and watching a movie, when the doorbell rang. At my front door was Doug and both of his children, who were there with Mother's Day gifts for me. Yes, Mother's Day gifts. The kids got me a beautiful wall hanging and a lovely little hand-painted candle lamp, and some cards. One was a thank-you card for the help during the party, etc. The other was a Mother's Day card, signed by both children, with a handwritten note inside from my sweet little almost-13-year-old. Here's an excerpt: "Mel, you truly truly are a special mom. I love you..." Wow. It took about three-and-a-half seconds of reading that card to get the first tear to fall.
And suddenly, I just got it. I realized that the best day I'd had in a very long time was spent with birthday cakes and flooded kitchens and ruined carpets and lots of craziness and chaos and kids. And it was fabulous. No, no -- it was really, really fabulous. Because they are fabulous. The kids, I mean. Both of them. Absolutely fabulous. (I love you kiddos, even though you'll never, ever read this.)
Thanks, Doug. Thanks for letting me be a part of your wild and crazy weekend with your kids. I never understood what was supposed to be so much fun about being a parent. I never understood what the fuss was all about. Thanks for showing me. Truly. And, kids, thanks for showing me what it feels like to get a Mother's Day card. That was a first for me, and I'll never forget it.
Note to self: Bookmark this weekend in one's memory as one of the best ever. The next time one hears a baby screaming in a department store, avoid the temptation to cringe, and instead silently congratulate the parents for how lucky they are. Silently wish for all of one's child-having friends a single day as fabulous as the one that started with a flood of bathwater and ended with a flood of sentimental tears. (Then again, maybe one's friends already know what those fabulous days are like).
Second note to self: Throw away the frog joke. It's not nearly as funny as it used to be.
Note to friends, family, etc: Again, don't panic! I'm not rushing out to trade in my two-door-with-the-stick-shift for an SUV full of soccer balls, and you won't soon find me vacuuming in pearls ala Donna Reid. I haven't completely lost my mind. I just had a great weekend. Promise.