It Could Be Worse

When I was a young mother of four children under the age of five I considered starting a support group. I would have called it M.A.P.S., Mothers Against Pre-Schoolers. Any woman who felt she fit could join for free.

I imagined we would hold meetings in a bar, maybe one that featured male dancers. The kids would stay home with dad. The entire evening would be his responsibility. We (me and all the other mothers in my group) would not prepare dinner. Maybe set out a box of Cheerios and a line of sippy cups full of Juicy Juice, but no more. It’d be against the rules. We would leave the house without logging written directions on how to bathe the kids or reminder notes of what to do In Case of An Emergency. We wouldn’t care if the dog was let out or the cat was fed. Come six o’clock we would simply leave. Walk out the door, no looking back, primed with red lipstick, smelling like a two-dollar whore, wearing spiked heels that’d grown dusty in the detritus at the bottom of the closet. We wouldn’t care if we looked trashy in painted on blue jeans or if our dark roots were showing. Meeting night was the night to let it all hang out, become who we fantasized about being every other noisy, sticky, chaotic, smeared, poopy, pukey, dirty, I’m-too-tired-to-have-sex-tonight-night.

Our meetings would be secret, like the Masons or the Shriners. We would meet in a public place, but no one would know our modus operandi. We would call the meeting to order with a round of Jaeger bombs, and there after it would be against the rules to make any references to potty-training, lactating, disciplining, cleaning, cooking or compromising. Instead, we would discuss the things that intelligent, vibrant women discussed like literature, music, gardening, gossip, make-up, exercise, vacation hot spots, celebrities, sex.

We would pretend we were sexy and skinny and single even though we knew were weren’t any of those things. We would introduce ourselves by our first names instead of “I’m so-and-so’s mommy.” We would hold burning cigarettes even if we didn’t smoke, and sip martinis even if we didn’t like olives. We would pretend we were still young and desireable. We would watch the men dance and drink more shots and laugh and bat eyes at the guy across the bar. And none of us would do anything “Stupid” because we would have signed the Secret Pact that says “We Promise Not to Do Anything Stupid,” and if we looked like we’re flirting with Stupid our blood-sisters would stop us because the motto of MAPS would be, “Stupidity is What Got You Here.”

At the end of the night we’d eventually go back to our homes. Amazingly, it wouldn’t look as bad as it had earlier in the day when all four children were crying at the same time, because the baby had puked down our bra, the toddler had pooped in the floor and the curious three-year-old had taken a swig of rubbing alcohol. We’d be seeing our lives through Jaeger eyes, and we would make a little tear because inside that house was the man we loved, potbelly and all, and the babies we’d made together, in our younger years, during the throes of passion, with the World of Ideals at our fingertips.

Each of us would sit in our driveways and think about our Glass of Life being half-full, hell it was flowing over! And quite unexpectedly we’d feel a swell of the biggest love we could ever remember feeling (except for the night when the husband, who was still the boyfriend that our parents hated, sneaked us out of our bedroom window so we could go park out behind the community college and let him feel us up), so we would fling open the door to our Grand Caravan and like the wind, rush inside to see our husband and babies sleeping in a pile on the floor, like puppies, and we would stand over the pile and smile at them and think “how precious,” and bathe in the flow of love that seemed to ooze from our every pore.

Since it wouldn’t be smart to wake them all sleeping so peacefully like that, we'd go to get ourselves ready for bed, but when we passed through the kitchen we'd spot a foreign substance dripping off the wall above the stove, and in the sink is every dish we own, dirty. And a foul odor is coming from the trash can, no, wait, behind the trash can. And the table is covered with a sticky substance that has run off onto the floor where we find the cat, all four paws stuck to the linoleum, meowing pitifully. In the bathroom, cold water stands in the tub and what looks to be a small candy bar is floating on the surface. Every towel we own is in a wet pile in the corner. And the hallway is strewn with every toy that comes in a primary color, even ones we didn’t know our children owned.

We want to muster the energy to blow up, to commit a Mt. Vesuvius, but we’re too tired and a little tipsy, so we cry more tears, but these are tears of defeat, surrender, resignation. We want out but there is no way out. We want to change our minds about this life, but it’s too late for that. We’ve made our bed. Figuratively, that is. Our real bed looks like rhinos slept in it, but that’s ok. We don’t even change our clothes, we just crawl under the covers and put a pillow over our heads. We cry ourselves to sleep with love for the man who is curled on the floor with the love babies piled around him, their little mouths sucking the air. And we console ourselves with the fact that it could be worse, they could be teenagers, and there’s no support group for that.

Comments

[Mel]

Bravo! (Perfect writing. I'd give you a standing ovation . . . if I weren't so lazy.)

[Stacy]

Love it! You rock, great writing.

[Yvonne]

Thank you for the best chuckle of the day!

[Suzi]

I love that so much I'm going to read it again.

[Deborah]

Wonderful!

I like your 100, uh 101.

[Jennifer]

Oh, I want to join! This is exactly the kind of support group I need.

I agree with the other comments. Great writing. Mind candy.

[Anisah]

I Felt So Alone Until I Found This Place!!I Can Now Say I'm Home.

[jennifer]

i love that so much i'm going to send it to my husband and say, "this is it. this is what having kids is like. are you sure you want to do that with me?"

[Shalee]

That is absolutely perfect!

If we can pull this off now, I'll buy the first round. And Cyn, you are the leader of the pack!

[Shannon from Rocks In My Dryer]

SIGN. ME. UP.

[Susan]

Funny, I was thinking about starting a group called MATS (Mothers Against Teenagers). We could all go into a witness protection program until our kids turn 21! Great blog!

[Mary]

I too am past the preschooler stage of motherhood (just.) but I still relate to this, your most hilarious, post. Thanks!

[Mary]

I'm not even a mom and I thought it was hilarious. Great writing.

[Empress Baggie]

Hilarious!! The Queen of The World understands ...

Very truly yours,
EB

[Krisco]

And I thought I was the only one who felt this way.... Oh wait, that is why we blog.... : )

[oshee]

Well said...I do meet up with a group of ladies on occassion much with the same purpose. Only we do end up talking about the kids..lol..And we fix dinner, and we don't drink. Maybe that is what we are lacking lol.
Thank you for the well thought out creative peice.

[Bonanza Jellybean]

I think that was the best post I have ever read. Really.

Oh, and my kid is 7 and actually very well-behaved... Can I still join? You said Jaeger Bombs, right? :)

[Anisah]

I have not written in a while because I can't return messages from my cell phone. I found this page while surfing the net on my cell phone.

[Soft Skin Vibrators]

I should notify u about this.