Yesterday afternoon, I drove to Indianapolis with a new friend to meet the lovely Bossy. As I do every time I’m away, I left instructions for the babysitter, a list of things to do for my daughter, and a note to my husband to read when he got home from work.

I made dinner and put it in the Crock Pot and straightened up the house. All my ducks were in a row. Until the moment we got to our hotel.

I barely had time to put my bag down, when my cell phone rang. On the other end was my nine year old daughter, screaming hysterically, “Mommy!!! Mommy!!! MOMMY!!!” When she finally took a breath, she was able to tell me her brother was badly hurt. I didn’t know what happened, but I did know that my daughter would not have such a reaction if it wasn’t serious.

There I was, three hours from home and my kids needed their Mommy. “Hello guilt? It’s me, Momo.” All I could do was urgently tell her to call her Dad (who luckily was on his way home from work). I hung up and phoned the sitter’s parents, who live two doors away. Then I freaked out sat and waited a few minutes before calling back to find out my son’s finger had been slammed in a door, and that the tip of it was gone.

All of these wonderful bloggers had to watch me sit with clenched teeth and buttcheeks, in anticipation of my husband’s report from the hospital. Once I drank four Coronas talked to my son on the phone, after his skin and fingernail had been stitched back on, I was able to relax…just a little.

I intentionally left this out of focus to hide my swollen, puffy eyes, and mascara which had dripped onto my shirt. That’s me in the middle, with the fake smile.

After two hours of sleep, we got up at 4:45 this morning, to get home to my son. And, even though my neighbors and my husband cleaned up most of the blood. I found this where they peeled his skin from the door jamb.

And lots of splatter marks on the wall…

…and this on my son’s broken finger.

I’m never leaving home again.

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When I was a kid I wanted to be a surgeon. I thought the inner workings of the human body were fascinating and couldn’t get enough of those PBS shows that brought operating tables into my family room. When they would hint at graphic images ahead and everyone else would turn away, I would glue myself to the screen.

Turns out, though, that you actually have to be a pretty good student if you choose that line of work. My elementary school report cards, which were all spotted with remarks like, “shares with her neighbors” and “doesn’t stay on task”, weren’t going to get me into medical school. It seems I was more suited to be a gossip columnist.

But as a parent, I have a chance to right what I did wrong. I have made it clear to my third-grade daughter that she needs to apply herself now, if she wants to be successful later.

We were recently discussing this and I asked her, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

She shrugged.

Given her love of animals and her near obsession with dogs, I suggested she should become a veterinarian.

She shook her head and said, “I don’t want to be a veterinarian! They can’t eat meat!“

Apparently, someone wasn’t staying on task during health and nutrition class.

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There are many days when I look at my kids and find myself jealous of them.

They have an almost complete lack of responsibility. Outside of my nine year old daughter’s homework and some very minimal chores at home, these children don’t have much on their daily list of things to accomplish.

They have energy I can only dream about. Oh wait, I don’t sleep. That’s another thing. They snooze right through the night. Every night.

They skip, climb trees, and swing. Life is fun.

The other day my Mom was visiting, and she asked how much my daughter weighs. I replied, “Sixty-one pounds.”

And I added “Not Ashamed of Their Weight” to my list of jealousies, when my daughter piped in, “Don’t forget the point four!”

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Week before last we had an out of town guest. Roughly five days before his arrival, I told my nine year old daughter I would need her help getting the house ready. I made plans to wash the windows, scrub floors, and do a lot of general spring cleaning. Plus, she would be bunking with her brother while our guest slept in her bed, so I wanted her to straighten up her bedroom.

By the end of the five days, I had done all of the cleaning…even her room. I gave up and told her the only thing left to do was to put a few things away. By the time our guest arrived, she hadn’t helped with that either.

So, I had to shake my head in disbelief when last week she asked if she could go to school early every, single day to, “help her teacher clean”.

I want to know what they are putting in that classroom dust.

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