Honor Student or Bust

Uber: denoting an outstanding or supreme example of a particular kind of person or thing.

I’ve always known that my genetic makeup was not that of an “ubermom.”

They are the types that have large calendars with all of their children’s activities written down three months in advance. They are also the ones who pack daily balanced, nutritious lunches for their children with sandwiches cut into triangles. They drive minivans with soccer ball stickers in the back windows or have “My Child is an Honor Student at _____” decals.

No, I’m definitely not an ubermom; although, each year I vow I will be more informed, more pro-active, more prepared.

But alas, I am again the last one to sign the kids up for sports and/or activities, calling the “organizer” breathless and panicked to make sure that sign-ups are still open. I am the one who never really knows what is going on because I forgot to write it on the calendar. I’m the one who picks up my teenager from junior high and tries to exit through the “entrance only” part of the parking lot (despite the squad car sitting there blockading the entrance). I embarrass this said teenager to the point of sending him into a crumpled, defeated heap on the floor of the SUV as I try to negotiate my way out of the parking lot,  hysterically begging and tearfully pleading ignorance.

Now that the third child has started his activities, I am operating at white-knuckle “seat of my pants” type mode. The best I can hope for is mediocrity with a tinge of desperation.

As my children get older, it hasn’t come any easier with practice; I don’t seem to have learned from past mistakes.

I am a little envious of the ubermoms sometimes, usually when I am running late to somewhere I didn’t realize I needed to be until thirty minutes beforehand. But then, as I think about it, the envy is replaced by a tinge of pride in myself that I found out where I needed to be before the event-practice-performance was over.

I have made a decision that perhaps next year I will strive to be a little more uber; this year has already started as a bit of a bust.

This is my Tenth Circle

Circa 2008:
I believe I am a pretty good person, although I am pretty noisy with my spiteful rage for the non intuitive, random idiocy of Florida drivers.

So…not to get into a theological debate about this or anything but I really hope that St. Peter will be stepping aside for me to stumble through the pearly gates when I kick the can. If not, well…there is the other place.

I suspect that I experienced a little bit of “the other place” this afternoon, however. I attended my son’s junior high band concert. I did so in a foul mood because my pants were too tight and my stomach is now the same size as it was when I was five months pregnant.

As the screeches of the clarinets pierced the air, I realized that  my own version of hell would be this: me, chained to a bench that provided no back support and forced to listen to “The Final Countdown,” “20 Christmas Carols in 2 minutes” and “Aria and Arietta” played by uninspired 8th graders.

Satan would add a little more insult to injury and have the band teacher stop between every song and provide its background, why he chose this song and any other little turd nuggets of information he deemed useful in order for his captive audience to attain the full appreciation of each musical piece.

Yet, I smile as my child comes towards me and, although I was unable to locate him in the greasy mass of teenage angst, I inform him that he did a wonderful job. I ask him polite and appropriate questions, tell him I love him, and give him a hug.

I will do so as I make a mental note that my next child will play a string — not a brass — instrument. I pray that he will have an natural affinity for Bach, Chopin or Beethoven. I will make a deal with the devil for the sound to be pleasing to my ears.pexels-photo-164821