After being on my back for three days with a bonafide case of the flu, that is precisely how my Mother’s Day started. Now, if you read my blog at all, you know that if the day was all birds chirping and breezes blowing, I would not be writing about it.
I met my friends and running mates just as the sun had come up. Everything was glistening and pristine. I knew my lung reserve was not good after being sick so I went slow…really slow.
Low Point 1:
While most on the team were going to 2.6 miles to turn around, as I fell further and further behind, I decided to turn around at 2 miles. The .6 mile lead I had would surely make up for my temporary slowness….but no.
I was not more than ¼ mile on the way back when not one but two fellow runners caught up from behind, gave me a sincere pat and polite “Are you OK? (implied: because you look like you are taking your last breath.)
Low Point 2:
After being lapped by my friends, I decided to do my annual Mother’s Day planting of flowers. You know…the one that is always followed by the annual Father’s Day removing of dead flowers.
Every year I vow to be better— to get on a watering schedule. I have visions of me standing in work clothes gently sprinkling my perfect buds while my kids blow bubbles and squeal in the background. Neighbors drive by and marvel at my dedication to my flowers, and work, and children. “She’s probably been in those shoes all day! But look at her….her flowers and kids come first…amazing woman really.”
The first week I will succeed at watering everything. Week 2, I will be desperate and will rely on my kids which means nothing but the driveway and mulch will get any water. Week 3, I will see the wilting pathetic messes in my pots and will dump gallons of water (literally gallon jugs of distilled water that we have in the garage for no reason at all) into each pot. I will not stop when the wet soggy mess comes to the rim of the pots and flows over. I will keep glugging that water….because THIS year they just can’t die.
Regardless, for this week, we have pretty flowers in our pots.
Low Point 3:
Yes, there was a carnival involved.
I should have known better. Really carnivals and I are not a good pairing. This particular carnival was practically on the grounds of the dilapidated K-Mart and slowly decaying mall in our town. But….Haddie wanted to go so badly, and it was such a beautiful afternoon that I caved.
We spent our obligatory hundreds of dollars on tickets for rides. I smiled as Haddie and her friends squealed. Now that’s Mother’s Day. Then we had to go play a carnival game to win goldfish. In case you are wondering, you can buy a goldfish at the pet store for oh.about a nickel. But today we spent $25 and countless minutes we will never get back watching our girls throw ping pong balls at stupid fish bowls.
By the grace of God, one ball landed and Haddie squealed with delight. Not that’s Mother’s Day!
We then did what any self-loathing carnival goers would do…we headed straight for the funnel cakes. Haddie skipped ahead with her friends while I clutched the plastic bag full of the most expensive goldfish ever known to man.
As I argued with my friend about who was spending their last $7 on snacks, the plastic bag slipped from my hand and landed with a sickening splat at my feet. Like blood oozing from the back of a victim’s head, the water just kept coming and coming. There was so much water….
I was paralyzed.
It was Sam to the rescue.
“Mom! Get a hold of yourself. Give me the bag. NOW.”
I scooped the bag off the ground with the little flapping fish in it while Hadley covered her eyes and rocked in the corner. Sammy sprinted with the bag cupped in his hands as if prepared to administer goldfish CPR should it come to that.
Alas, he got to the fish lady in time and was back promptly with a new bag and fresh water,
And I was relieved of my fish carrying duties with one disgusted look from my 6 year-old. Now that’s Mother’s Day.
But wait..in all of this there was a lower point yet. I like to call it
Low Point #4.
I really do hate porta potties but after the crime scenes that passed for porta potties at the Philly Broad Street Run last week, the ones at the carnival were practically marble lined. Still, I did my double/triple protect: layer after layer of toilet tissue on the seat followed by an air squat just low enough to make my quads scream.
I was out of there as fast as possible.
On the way back from the potties, I must have run into half a dozen patients.
“Oh hey Dr. Meyer!”
“Kids say hi to Dr. Meyer!”
“Happy Mother’s Day Dr. Meyer!”
I smiled and nodded and waved and said a prayer of gratitude . I have the best job and the best life in the world!
I was not back with my friend and kids for more than 30 seconds when she looked at me with horror.
“Christine…..you…..you….have toilet paper sticking out of your pants….get it out….!” I jumped around like a crazy person who just found a mouse in her shoe —swatting at anything and nothing. Finally, I had the piece of TP out and tossed.
No one saw. How could they have …it was totally fine.
That’s when the security guard piped up.
“Oh Honey…I saw it too…I saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaw that there toilet paper with my own eyes….I wasn’t gonna say nothin’….but your friend here….well..”
I wasn’t listening anymore.
All I could think was “Now THAT’S flippin’ Mother’s Day.”