Working Mother

Imagine: I’m on a conference call. We’re discussing the next move in a contract. My daughter walks into my office, realizes I’m talking on the phone, and starts to scribble this note to me… (Thankfully, she no longer tries talking to me without sound….or her version of sign language)

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What? What does that mean? Doesn’t a volcano involve plaster of paris (whatever that is), a platform of some type, and brown paint? I happen to know we don’t have any brown paint. Why does she think she can just whip one up on the fly? All these thoughts are flying through my head as I stare at this post it note. Whatever she thinks, she’s headed out the door. I insist she wear my safety glasses, safety first! She might blow us all up but her eyes WILL be protected. Everything on the call comes to a screeching halt. My clients now know exactly what’s going on in my office/home. There’s no more pretending I’m actually at an office, office…(just like those moments when the UPS man shows up and my dogs go berserk!) I’m asking them to hold on for a quick second. I want my daughter to take the dog with her. She’s on the front lawn and says she doesn’t want to take the dog just in case he gets hurt….Really. I send my son instead. He’s asking questions on his way out the door: Why am I going out there? She won’t take the dog but you’ll send me? Tell me again what she’s building? Why is she carrying Windex? Mama, she wants baking soda, what’s the baking soda for?

A smart, professional person would have asked her clients if she could call them back. Nope, not me. We are all knee deep in the volcano business at hand. Each time I call out to my son, “Go out there!”, my client answers “I’m not going out there.” They are chuckling with each other, enjoying the circus. There’s glee leaking through the line that it’s at my house and not theirs. There’s a little blonde, 10-year-old girl, at the bottom of the driveway, sporting a purple puff jacket, turquoise safety glasses (that’s just good parenting), and she has surrounded herself with odd kitchen cleaners. My son, The Witness, keeps trying to come inside because he’s cold. And I am still on the phone, with clients, glued to the window, giving a play by-play, giving my first-born the stink eye every time he turns towards the door, with the dog sitting next to me.

Lets talk about this:

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My son, a 15-year-old, Sophomore in high school, forgot his lunch at home today. Out of curiosity I decided to look in the bag. This is not a lunch. This is something a 4-year-old packs when running away from home. I am a failure as a mother. Every day I ask him what he packed for lunch? Every day he tells me he packed a sandwich. In the mean time my daughter (we’ll call her The Scientist!) has started hiding cookies around the house so she’ll have some for her lunch. It seems they disappear pretty quickly. I think we’ve figured out the mystery. I’m outnumbered. Send help.