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http://www.sugarmamablog.com

That is the worst break-up line ever, by the way, and I would never use it for anything other than, I’VE MOVED TO A SITE WITH MORE SPACE FOR MORE THINGS TO ENTERTAIN YOU WITH!!!

www.sugarmamablog.com

Personally, I’m a rip-the-band-aid-off kind of person and I think clean breaks are best, but I respect all of you who aren’t that way…SO, I will leave this site up for a while.

But red rover, red rover, sugar mama fans come on over to sugarmamablog!

I was at my oldest’s school today, picking him up. I’ve been there a lot this month due to April being “my” month for this character counts initiative I’ve been working on. But this month also happens to mark a lot of other exciting things for me, professionally. So Sugar Mama’s been a little higher profile than her typical meager existence lately. Anyway, a mom I don’t know by name came up to me by the school playground today and said, “What are you, Wonder Woman? I keep seeing your name everywhere and then you’re here, volunteering…Geez, is there anything you don’t do?” It was a rhetorical question, of course. What she meant to say was that I bugged her.

“Actually, there are a lot of things I can’t do.” I offered.

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“I can’t wind up a hose in perfect circles, even though I have one of those hook things. And I can’t fold a fitted sheet to save my life. And both are things I’m forced to do several times a week.”

“Well, maybe you should hire a gardener, then, or someone to do your laundry.”

She was killing me.

“Do you think Wonder Woman had a maid or a gardener?” I asked.

Our eyes locked.

“I know how to fold a sheet. And a hose.” She offered. “I’ll teach you sometime.”

Folder Girl. My new favorite superhero.

I just wanted to wish everybody a happy one.

So let’s raise our glasses of water to composting, reusable shopping bags and balancing our checkbooks before using the ATM. (Seriously, those receipts are costing us forests.)

Clink!

My husband is out of town for ten days.  ‘Out of town’ is sort of an understatement, actually, as he is in the Maldives, halfway across the world. Anyway, communication is difficult because he is 13 hours ahead. It’s also $5/a minute. So I bought a clip for my phone so I wouldn’t miss his calls. The kind that really important people wear, like Dr.’s who need to hear their beepers, or contractors who want to know just how late their subs are going to be. So I was at our oldest’s baseball game on Saturday and a mom said, “Well, isn’t that snazzy?”

“Oh, I wear it so I won’t miss my husband’s call.”

Then she gave me a look. That look that says, oh, you’re one of those….under your husbands thumb, are we?

I didn’t bother to explain that he was practically on the moon. Or that we don’t even share a bank account, let alone our schedules, daily goings-on, etc. But that clip makes quite a statement, I’m learning this week.

What do I care? As long as it keeps ringing.

Sounds kind of like a song, doesn’t it? There’s a snail in my pocket, honey, ooh, ooh, ooh…But, of course, it’s not a song; it’s a story. A terribly sad story that involves a washing machine, a pair of jeans, and, you guessed it, a snail. I was doing a load of laundry, and why I didn’t think to check my kids’ pockets still plagues me. But I think I was cradling a cell phone in one ear and forgot. Regardless, I washed my family’s jeans, dried them and folded them as I do Every. Single. Day.

Now, my five-year-old earns his allowance by making his bed and putting his clothes away, so I handed him his pile of jeans directly. “OHHH NOOOOOOO!” he screamed at me. “You washed my snail!!!!!!!”

“Your what?”

“I found a snail after school and I put him in my pocket so I could bring him home and feed him and love him, and…”

“Wait.” I interrupted. “You never took him out?”

“No.”

“Well, is it still in there? Did you check?”

“No. Will you do it? I don’t want to look.”

I’m so sure. I can think of little else I’d rather not do.

“Jackson, the chances of the snail still being alive in these jeans are slim. And they have holes in the knees anyway. What do you say we just toss ‘em?”

He agreed, thank goodness. And then we went out and picked up another snail and made a makeshift cage for it.

Now, why couldn’t he have brought home a cat? Now that would have been music to my ears.

Both of them are, actually, and it’s with the same woman. My girlfriend came over last night for a glass of wine and both kids started acting strange. Super sweet to me, helpful in the kitchen, easy on the night routine….offered to kiss us goodnight, even. And then they offered her a kiss. And another kiss. And then an embrace that wouldn’t end. But they have great taste, I’ll admit. Because my friend embodies that unique combination of Barbie meets librarian. (I mean, there are few men NOT in love with her.)

But, come on, boys, run along…she’s MINE tonight.

So this morning when they woke up, my five-year-old asked for her. “Well, she went home and slept her house. But don’t worry, we’ll see her again.” My three-year-old cried and cried. His first heartbreak.

I may even let him have break-up ice cream this morning.

See? I made you look. Seriously ‘ugly’ is an ugly word. I can’t even say ‘ugly’ without making an ugly face. And when you say a kid’s ugly – or your kid’s ugly – you’re the ugliest child of all. Which means, of course, that I am the Ugliest. Child. Of. All.

Because I really said this about my youngest. It was a year ago – he was just over two – and I confided in my husband that I thought Benji was, well, sort of unattractive. He’d smelled of the same inherent funk since birth, he oozed boogs, ear wax, and I-don’t-know-what-else, and his hair lay in a perpetual rooster ‘do due to three competing cowlicks. What was even less appealing, was that he couldn’t close his mouth due to these buck teeth which, I swear, had I been bored with nothing else to do all day, I could have fit apple slices in between. Still could, if I weren’t so busy wiping his drool.

Does this mean I didn’t adore him? No. Does this mean I should be shot for being a jerk? Yes. Especially because Benji is the spitting image of my husband – cowlicks, buck teeth and all. Which I think was part of my initial distaste. Where the heck was I? Definitely not in the hair or mouth. Not even in his elbow.

I was even asked once if I was the kid’s nanny.

But I’m not making excuses for such a terrible thing to say. My husband was so horrified that he made me promise to never breathe a word about it again, that I must be sleep-deprived, and that, well, I was the ugly one for saying it.

True, true and so, so true.

So last night, Benji (now three) climbed into my bed, covered in leaky diaper. After I changed him and laid him back next to me, I couldn’t sleep. The moonlight poured though our window (still no window coverings after these same three years) and shone right down on my son. At that moment, he took my breath away. Yes, his mouth was still agape and drooling all over my pillow and sure his hair swirled in a way only a toilet bowl should, but he was…absolutely…beautiful. So I snuggled him and pressed my nose against his neck (which of course, reeked of pee, among the rest of his mystery varietals) and stayed there as long as I could withstand. I also thanked Heaven for making him nothing like me.

Nope, not a trace of ugliness in that boy. I kept that all for myself.

This is how my son’s bus driver opens a conversation with any parent whose kid’s gotten in trouble on his bus. He pulls over, turns OFF the bus (this tips all parents off that one of ours has done wrong), he lets all kids file off but the do-badder, and finally disembarks with his sheepish victim trailing behind. “Should we talk?” the bus driver asks his or her mom, rhetorically. And then they discuss the crime, the punishment, etc.

How do I know this?

Because I’m always that mom. The one whose eyes are perpetually glued to the open door of the stopped bus, searching for her son, with fingers crossed he’s not the last one off. But he always is. In fact, whenever the driver turns off the bus at our stop, parents now search for me, not their kid. Oh good, she’s here – I’m safe.

So yesterday, I was that mom again. Jackson brought a robotic hand for share day, and – evidently - terrorized the bus. But when he came spilling off the bus in tears sans robot hand, instead of waiting for “the talk”, I scooped him up and raced to our car for cover.  I ignored bus protocol.

The shaaame.

So this morning, I braced both of us for what lie ahead at the bus stop. “You broke the rules on the bus, we didn’t resolve the conflict as a team, and now we’ll probably never see that hand again.” I told Jackson. (I even dressed in black – I wanted our driver to know I took this seriously.) So when the driver stopped the bus, Jackson and I were poised and ready.

“Should we talk?” The driver asked.

“Yes, let’s talk.” I answered

“Jackson, you’re a good kid. “ he said as he leaned down and looked right into my shaking son’s eyes. “And that hand was cool. But next time, I’ll keep it up front for you. That way no one will get hurt.” And then he gave the hand back.

“I’m sorry for not listening.” Jackson said. “And thanks for keeping it safe.” And then they walked hand in hand - their real hands - up the stairs.

The moral if the story is that we should talk. We should resolve conflict right away. Otherwise it festers. And, well, moving on means moving forward.

It’s true that my mom and I look a lot alike. Same mannerisms, same eyes, same bottle of blonde. But our bond goes deeper than that. We were simply meant to be bound to one another. Or, at least, I to her. Because the truth is, I rarely make a move without her – at least an email and phone call transpires between us, no matter how small the issue. My issue, that is…she’s been navigating sans mom for a long time.

So when I got the call today - the ‘please don’t worry, but I just got out of the hospital/surgery due to a lesion in my artery and all is going to be OK, but boy was that ambulance a crazy ride’ call, my world stopped…It just. Stopped.

It was only for a moment…a fleeting coma, when I didn’t know where I was, who I was, or how I was. But I raced back into my skin within seconds. Her skin. Our skin.

For I am my mother’s daughter. And there’s nowhere or no one else I’d rather be.

I love you, mom. xoxo times infinity.