Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Mommy Dearest

Mommy Dearest
By Allison Adams 01-20-13 / Submitted to The Greeneville Sun on 01-21-13

A while back I heard that Martha Stewart’s daughter had just written a “tell-all” book about growing up with the Queen of Perfect Homemaking and Entertainment as her mother.

I haven’t read the book but I imagine that Martha’s daughter hasn’t painted her mother in terribly attractive light. 

Don’t get me wrong – I admire the fact that Martha can somehow manage to fill 22 captivating minutes of television just by explaining the merit behind painting a thrift store furniture find a “milky, silky, color of white”, but I believe she might have been a little difficult as a mother.

I began to wonder what would happen if my kids ever decided to write a tell-all book about me – not that anyone would be interested in reading something that mundane.

Nevertheless, I thought I’d better go ahead and get a few things out in the open in order to take the sting out of the publisher’s press release.

It’s true – I was a yeller.

Oh, I tried to speak with a firm, inside, voice – but the truth is, I know there were some times that I spoke to my children with a firm, inside, voice that could be heard clear down the block. 

I yelled with love, from the bottom of my heart.

I’m also ashamed to admit that, to this day, a handful of my dearest friends refer to me as “The Warden”.  This stems from the time I made my toddler son stay inside on one of our most amazing snow days ever, because he bit one of his sisters – not once, but twice. 

I can still see his chubby cheeks pressed to the window watching everybody else take turns sledding down the glistening, snow-covered, street. 

That was a long day.

Let’s see, what else? 

Oh - I did not always dress in a freshly ironed, collared blouse, coordinating slacks, or skirt, and tasteful footwear to putter around the house like June Clever did. 

(That should probably read: I never, ever, dressed in a freshly ironed, collared blouse, etc., etc.)

My daily mom uniform consisted of anything I could pull over my head, paired with something with an elastic waist. 

If footwear was required it was usually soled in rubber. 

My son, the former biter, refers to this as my “bag lady ensemble”.

Also, it’s true that I have been known to serve leftovers 4 nights in a row without making any effort whatsoever to try and disguise night 2, 3, or 4 as anything other than a repeat of night 1.

I suppose I could have added a little sprig of parsley.  I regret that now.

And – while I generally frowned on it – I admit that I occasionally looked the other way if one of my daughters pull her favorite top out of the dirty clothes, spray it with water, and toss it in the dryer to fluff it up before she wore it to school.

Since I’ve mentioned school … on more than one occasion I neglected to return the signed-permission portion of the permission slip back to the teacher, but I almost always returned some portion of the permission slip back to the teacher.

I hope they remember to mention that part.

Oh, gosh – this really stings, but here goes:  Once I was the very last parent to arrive at school to pick-up my kids from a school dance that ended a full 30 minutes before I bothered to show up.

Actually, now that I think about it, since that only happened one time it’s hardly worth mentioning.

Instead, they’ll probably mention that I drove all the way home and started to prepare Sunday lunch before I realized that I’d left my son at church.

Because that happened three times.

I just hope they emphasize in the book that I left him behind at church, and not at the mall.

That ought to cover chapter 1.

I really should have garnished the leftovers with a sprig of parsley.

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