Yesterday morning, I was the ultimate Stepford Mom (in my mind).
I’d produced a picnic, complete with: butterfly shaped sandwiches, homemade chocolate chip muffins, and a healthy fruit salad. I even had a checkered tablecloth all packed up. I was on fire, damn it!
But soon, my inner June Cleaver threatened to give way to my inner Crazy Mom. That bitch creeps in when June and I get ignored during crucial moments, like when time is tight. And, sure enough, a time-is-tight moment had arrived. After getting carried away in the kitchen, we were officially going to be late! So, of course, it wasn’t long before June and I were faced with that fork in the road, where Lunatic Lane meets Pleasantville Crescent…
Yes, I’d packed a pretty picnic. I’d even put on a super pretty floral skirt but I’d lost track of time. We had an important doctor’s appointment to get to before the picnic, and the clock was ticking!
I asked the girls to put on their shoes, grab our picnic basket, and head to the car. I then ran upstairs to brush my teeth.
When I came back down, they were not merrily skipping out the door, picnic basket in tow. Oh no. They were, instead, chillin’ on the couch watching TV.
Before I could muster-up a perma-grin, June tossed her apron to the floor and started making her way down Lunatic Lane.
Fuck. She ditched me. Well, she ditched us (Crazy Mom and I).
With a mouth full of Listerine, I hopped in front of the TV, dominating the screen with over-the-top gestures (to guide the kids towards the door), while shouting: “MMMMMMmmmmmm MMMMMMMmmmmmm!” They looked at me with squinted eyes and bemused expressions. And, although entertained by my antics, they were clearly not receiving my message. So, I zoomed into the loo, spit my mouthwash in the sink, and released my voice.
But… by then, Crazy Mom had taken over.
“Come ON!” I shouted, foam forming at the corners of my mouth.
The kids bolted off the couch and headed to the front hallway, like their asses were on fire.
“Why must it come to this?” I asked Crazy Mom. But, she was too busy fuming to respond.
“Uuuuuuuggggggh,” my eldest groaned. “I can’t find my other shoe… MOM! Where’s my shoe?”
“I don’t KNOW!” I growled, while passing Zed a hairbrush. (She clearly hadn’t used one before putting on her headband.)
“MOM! I can’t find my shoe!” She was still searching.
“Wear different shoes!” I trudged passed her, and out the door with the picnic and a bag filled with sweaters, bubbles, and one rogue soccer ball that suddenly escaped and began rolling down the driveway.
I chased after it, while searching for any sign of June. She was long gone.
“MOM! I CAN’T find it! MOM!?” She was still looking for her shoe.
“I don’t know where it is!” I shouted from the street. “Do you know why I don’t know where it is? Because I’m not PSYCHO!” The girls stood, frozen. Brows furrowed. Eyes darting from sister to sister.
I snatched the ball and looked up, defeated. “I mean… I’m not psychic.”
I threw the ball in the trunk and closed it as the girls started to giggle, a giggle that surely suggested: “She really IS psycho!”
And then, something unexpected happened. I squinted my eyes to bring focus to a faint figure in the distance. Low and behold, it was June! She was running back up Lunatic Lane, arms flailing.
“It’s not too late to take Pleasantville Crescent!” she shouted. “IT’S NOT TOOOOO LAAATE!” Soon, a real grin formed, real laughter happened, and Crazy Mom was dismissed from duty (until next time).
We almost ran over June, as we backed out of the driveway. But, she managed to tuck ‘n roll onto the front lawn just in time. And, as the sun peered out from behind the clouds, we waved goodbye to both June and Crazy Mom and drove happily onto Pleasantville Crescent.