I just dropped off my son at preschool. Well, not so much dropped him off as pulled in, waited for a retired fellow in an orange vest to direct me to a parking spot, and walked 40 yards into the school with an eager five year old, a school bag, and a snack bucket big enough to hold snacks for 20 kids and three teachers. You should see the parents with more than one kid. When my daughter was in preschool I was one of them. Holding a big infant carrier, along with all the other stuff, was quite a balancing act.

Actually, I could just drop him off. They have teachers and parent volunteers in a “drop off zone” where parents can pull up and someone will open the door, reach in and unbuckle your kid, then send him or her into school. It’s not that I don’t think my son could manage getting to his classroom unassisted; it’s that I don’t want anyone to see the inside of my car.

Not only is there the typical Cheerio assortment all over the floor, but there is an accumulation of various crumbs inside my son’s seat. I can clean it out, but those crumbs are back within a couple of days. It’s like they multiply on their own or something.

There is also a black stain on the rug, but I don’t know where it came from. And, there is a sticky substance just inside the door…the door those volunteers would have to open to get my son out. I can NOT de-stickify the spot either. I’ve tried everything, but it remains tacky nonetheless. And, I can’t forget the time my husband saw something on the floor and leaned down to smell it, only to find out it was pee. Either my son is extremely flexible, or someone snuck out of their car seat without me knowing.

A quick glance in my back seat will reveal small tissue paper squares, and green pipe cleaners. They’re just lying on the seat in case one of us gets the urge to make a paper flower. There is also a soccer ball, a styrofoam star covered with glitter, a broken umbrella, various happy meal toys, and a maraca.

Paper flowers, a glittery star, and a maraca…I could throw a fiesta! I’m sure if I just looked hard enough, I could find myself a burrito.

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Having a child with health problems, a child who almost died from a bacterial infection, has made me quite the germophobe. I am constantly washing my hands and have little bottles of anti-bacterial gel in every bag or purse I own. Not too long ago, I even pulled out some gel at church and used it after my son had shaken the hands of fifteen different people during the sign of peace. No offense folks, but I don’t know where you’ve been. My husband was so embarrassed that he gave me a bogus grin, then I heard him mumble under his breath, “I didn’t sign up for this”.

My children are ordered to wash their hands IMMEDIATELY upon entering the house after school, and I NEVER let them use a drinking fountain. When we enter a public restroom, my son is told to keep his hands on his belly and not touch anything. Preferably, he just uses the potty I always keep in the car, which I have lined with kitty litter bags. It has kept him off many a public toilet seat.

I have taught my daughter to push elevator buttons with her elbow, and how to open a restroom door with a paper towel, then shoot it across the room into the trash. It’s like basketball camp, only without the basketball, court, or scoreboard.

The grocery store we go to has recently put out disinfecting cloths so we can wipe down the cart before my son’s hands touch it. No one can detail a shopping cart quite like me. Those little car-carts are always so sparkling and clean that people are probably expecting me to tap on some custom rims and add hydraulics. My son could run into his friends and hear them exclaim, “Dude! Sweet ride!”

But, despite my efforts, my kids still get sick. I hear it’s good for them to get sick once in awhile, because they’ll be stronger for it when they’re older. Well, good! Because, if that’s the case, my son will be the picture of perfect health when he’s an adult. Then he can shake all the hands he wants.

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Yesterday, my son climbed on my lap, held my face in his hands and said, “You are so, so, so, so pretty”. This was no ordinary compliment, considering it came from the kid who is usually commenting on someone’s most unattractive qualities.

It was also remarkable because I don’t feel pretty much these days. Granted, there was a time when I looked all right. But, what once was gangly is now pudgy, what was firm is now wrinkled, what was straight is now slouched, and what was smooth is now scarred. I work out, I take my vitamins, I try to eat right, I’ve even been sleeping better, but I will never have what I once did.

I’m at an age where a minute in the sun seems to add a new wrinkle, and when my dermatologist gets ahold of me, she chops moles off like she’s a butcher…always leaving mangled marks along the way. I rarely feel comfortable leaving the house without make-up, and more often than not, I’ll don a hat and sunglasses before taking the kids to school.

My hair never looks quite right, and clothes don’t fit like they used to. My bra deserves overtime pay for all the work it has to do. I’m a Mom, I’m nearing 40, I don’t have the time or energy it takes to make myself look attractive.

But, in the eyes of my five year old, I’m pretty…and that’s good enough for me.

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