I have a problem. The hem on my daughter’s school uniform has come undone and it needs sewn, but I don’t know how to do it. As a matter of fact, I recently gave my sewing machine to my in-laws because they will actually use it. Poor thing sat in my closet for 10 years without being touched. My husband bought me that machine with much wishful thinking, but I never even learned how to thread it.

But, sewing isn’t the only task I do miserably. It is just one of many reasons why I make a lousy housewife…

I am a rotten cook, my husband frequently runs out of clean underwear because I haven’t done the laundry, and the kitchen sink is often overflowing with dishes.

The most I can seem to run a sweeper is twice a week, when it should really be done every day. My dog sheds so much that I am constantly telling the children not to sit on the floor. I keep a lint brush handy, so their teachers won’t think I make them sleep on top of the dog’s bed, in their school clothes.

There is dust covered furniture with dust-bunnies underneath…and you don’t want to know what I find when a ball rolls under the oven and I have to pull it away from the wall.

The basement is cluttered with things I plan on putting out for a garage sale…the one I’ve been meaning to have for three years now. The floors need mopped, the curtains need washed, toys need disinfected, and the cabinets need scrubbed. I REALLY could go on and on.

But, I am good at some things…

I’ve read Barney books so often that I have them memorized, and I can whoop some butt at Candyland, PayDay, Chutes & Ladders and Sorry.

I have the patience to spend an entire Saturday afternoon putting together a jigsaw puzzle with two kids, and I wait for, what seems like eons, while my five year old says his prayers each night.

I can give a kid a good bath in two minutes flat, undo knotted shoelaces and necklaces in record speed, pack a lunch faster than a speeding bullet, and I always get my kids to school on time.

I manage to keep files from work, school papers, homework, committee documents, insurance forms and therapy instructions in order. And, I can be enthusiastic while watching magic tricks and shows put on by a five and nine year old. Over, and over, and over…

I can give a haircut to a squirming kid, floss the back teeth of a child with a severe gag reflex, and thanks to a “failure to thrive” diagnosis, I, along with my husband, managed without much sleep in order to feed our boy every three hours, round the clock, for 13 months straight.

I can heal boo-boos with a kiss, make up stories and songs to sooth a tired child, once danced around the lab at the hospital to distract my son while his blood was drawn, and have somehow mustered the strength to watch him get taken to surgery time after time.

So there. My daughter’s hem is out and I need someone else to sew it. I’m no domestic goddess, and I’m not a Super-Parent either, but I think I make a halfway decent Mom.

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For Valentine’s Day, my husband and I promised not to spend any money on each other. The two of us, along with the kids, made handmade cards, and it turned out to be the best Valentine’s Day I can recall. Flowers and chocolates are nice, but these gifts were truly from the heart.

But, even without the painted pictures from the kids and a sweet poem from my husband, I am fully aware that my family loves me. I know this, because they don’t criticize my cooking…and I am one lousy cook.

The other night, while making spaghetti and meatballs, I realized halfway through cooking that I didn’t have the key ingredient for my sauce. That ingredient being the sauce itself. In this house, made from scratch is an unused term. Prego does it much better than I ever could.

So, what do you do when frozen meatballs are starting to thaw on the bottom of your Crock Pot and there’s no Prego in the house? Add some Hormel Chili, and a jar of tomato soup, of course!

And, my husband, my son and my daughter ate that “sauce”…and I use that term real lightly… over whole wheat pasta without complaint. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.

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I sound like a sick cat when I sing. Actually, more like a sick cat, in heat, that was recently attacked by a pack of wild dogs. It’s so bad that I lip sync in church. Even hundreds of people can’t drown me out.

My husband has a very nice singing voice…one he inherited from his Mom. (Did you hear that? It sounds like a pinball machine. Ching-ca-ching-ca-ching-ching. That’s me, racking up mother-in-law points.) My husband sings because HE CAN. Unlike me, he doesn’t send small children screaming, ‘Make it stop! Make it stop!’

Last year, our son had ear tubes put in. For a week after the surgery we put drops in his ears twice a day, and he would have to lie on each side for five minutes afterward. After 10 minutes of staying still, which is excruciating for a five year old, we would tell him, “Okay, you can get up. You’re free.”

That quickly turned into my husband singing a loose rendition of the Rolling Stones’ song, I’m Free. ‘You’re free to do what you want, any old time.’ As much as I hate to sing, I will do it for my kids…if I have to. Although, I would refer to it as a lyrical whisper.

For some reason, my son doesn’t mind my bad voice. Though, maybe, just maybe, his 25% hearing loss has something to do with it.

Last weekend, my husband and I were out of town when our son came down with a fever. My niece was babysitting and I told her to give him Tylenol. Apparently when she got the Tylenol out of the container, she referred to them as “bad boys”. As in, ‘Let’s see if these bad boys will make you feel better’.

So this past week, we gave our son Tylenol and he would call them “bad boys”. And now, my husband belts out the theme from COPS every time he medicates him. My son wants me to sing, but in my quiet voice I’m doubting the criminals would be all that intimidated.

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My nine year old daughter has quite a collection of stuffed dogs. So many dogs, that for Christmas we bought her a REAL dog bed to put in her room. There are Shepherds, Collies, Poodles, Terriers, Huskies, and Bulldogs…just to name a few. The collection is so big that we’ve lost count. But, there is one…just one…that holds a special place in my daughter’s heart. One little dog so dirty and tattered that it’s almost unrecognizable. Her name is Darling, and I think she was a Beagle in her previous life at the Hallmark store.

Sometime in November, when we were cleaning out toy boxes and organizing rooms to make space for Santa’s bounty, Darling got lost. We looked everywhere for her. Furniture was moved, closets were emptied, and toy boxes were thoroughly searched. I had come to the conclusion that my five year old son had probably thrown Darling into a Goodwill bag, but I didn’t dare tell my daughter that.

Last night, just before I tucked her into bed, we made another attempt to locate Darling. We looked under my daughter’s dresser and behind her desk, and I finally told her that I was afraid we had shipped Darling off to Goodwill. Her eyes filled with tears and she said, “NOOOO!” I told her that I just didn’t know where else that dog could be.

Then I asked her if she had ever looked in my room. She and my son watch TV in there sometimes, and I told her it was possible that her ornery little brother could’ve thrown Darling under my bed. So we looked among the shoe boxes, stored-up summer clothes and dust bunnies, but with no luck. Then I looked behind my bed…and, THERE SHE WAS. Lodged between a windowsill and my headboard, crumpled up and barely visible.

When I said, “I found her!”, my little girl dropped the clothes she had been holding and ran over and grabbed her dog. And the tears which had been welling up, freely flowed down her cheeks. She was blubbering with joy, and I was so happy for her that I started crying. A grown woman, crying about a filthy, stuffed dog with spots of fur that are hardened with what is most likely syrup. I never would’ve thought that I’d be happy to see Darling too.

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