I spent the better part of today at a hotel near the airport with four other stay-at-home moms from the Bugglekids' preschool co-op. One of the moms invited us to be her support team for a final, taped audition for a popular game show. She could've told me she was going to be starring in one of those genital herpes commercials and I still would've been stoked to get out of the house.
I didn't have to drive or schedule a babysitter, since my friend arranged to have the preschool open for the day so the kids could play and eat pizza while we tried to catapult her one step closer to fame and fortune. Buggleboy was crying uncontrollably and wailing Mama as I ran out the door. By the time we hit the road I needed a cocktail.
The entire process - from the photos to the peppy introduction speech to the waiting, primping, waiting around and finally, to the audition itself - was strangely exhausting, a surreal amalgamation of a Girl Scout merit badge festival, a job-training seminar and a homecoming pep rally. I don't think I've jumped up and down screaming like that since Madonna was still wearing lace.
Afterward, over a late lunch at Baja Fresh, we started chatting about how stay-at-home moms get a bad rap, like we're all just sitting around in our terry cloth track suits waiting on the cable guy. Maybe. But who else is gonna do it, in between scraping Play-doh from the cushions and scrubbing crayon off the walls? Maybe the idea of another grownup entering the house before it's dark out is actually the most exciting thing since David Beckham donned briefs. Maybe a visit from the homely Terminix guy is the only adult interaction we're going to have ALL DAY.
I spent a lot of time lamenting about how grumpy I've been this summer, and how I should snap out of it because come September, I'm going to have two mornings a week all to myself. And then it's all downhill until college.
I left feeling so inspired by these women who, with little or no outside help, are able to do what I do every day and not complain. At least, not at the professional level.
When the kids and I finally got home, I rallied. I parked them on the couch in front of Madagascar, changed into my grubby clothes and decontaminated the shower, scrubbing away in my starlet eyeliner and teased mom-'do. After that, I prepared this intricate meal, stirring polenta for twenty minutes, reconstituting dried Italian mushrooms and blanching kale, while simultaneously trying to corral a wailing Bugglegirl in the living room so she wouldn't have a chance to sit on Buggleboy. Bugglehubby wasn't stoked when he saw more greens in the pot (Look, honey - there's pancetta!) but it turned out to be surprisingly tasty. Although about halfway through dinner I started to get a little grossed out, as the polenta congealed like oatmeal gone cold.
Oh, the entire afternoon didn't smell like roses. At one point as I was chopping mushrooms, with Buggleboy wrapped around my shins, I started barking orders to Bugglegirl to stay on the couch. In between hysterical sobs, she cried, "Mommy, you need to say that with kindness, Mommy." And she was right. Because this isn't some audition; this is the real deal.
2 years ago
1 comment:
The fact that I went from a blissful reverie about Madonna in lace and then came a millimeter away from clicking on the Beckham link makes a little scared and confused, but in the end, just another great, entertaining read. How many times have the Bugglekids seen Madagascar now by the way? Has to be in the twenties now.
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