The early morning sun glinted through gauzy curtains as my eyes adjusted to this newly awakened light. Slowly, my mind made itself cognizent of various thoughts and facts, and I realized it was Mothers Day. Delighted to have a chance to linger in the comfy quilts a while longer, I began to look back upon fond memories of my life with children. There were so many beautiful moments and happy times, precious episodes of pure joy. And for each of these, there were at least twice as many that were simply Episodes. We go into motherhood with soft-focus expectations of love and beauty, but real life, though sweet, is also salty and suprisingly full of poop.
For example, there was a particular birthday party for one of the little darlings that had a South American theme. One of my brothers had recently returned from Brazil with gobs of ethnic toys, candy, and musical instruments. He even brought one of the flouncy white dresses that are popular with the mamacitas as a gift for me. I chose to wear it that day even though he had been away while I was busy growing yet another baby, and my ever-expanding belly jutted ostentatiously between what had become on me a too-small halter top and low-slung rows of ruffles. Ever positive, I decorated and baked, thinking surely everything would be perfect on this glorious day.
Our home filled with children of all ages. Nieces, nephews, & neighbors mingled with aunts & uncles, grandparents, family friends, and one of my husband's buddies from way back in his days with the band (I'm pretty sure that guy was under the influence when he showed up.) The stereo played a samba while cake & treats made their way around the room. Even our gentle pitbull who suffered from anxiety and irritable bowels enjoyed the delights. Normally too nervous around crowds, he stealthily made his way under the radar, cleaning up plates of dropped cake and perhaps a few pieces of bubble gum.
Everyone was having an excellent time, and we thought it could only get better when I brought out the bat and blindfold and announced that it was time for the pinata. One after another, dizzy children swung wildly at the little pink donkey hanging from the banisters, laughing and cheering. When my son finally whacked it hard enough for it to pop open, they all ran amok beneath it, eager to grab fallen candy. Happiness soon turned to dismay as they realized there was no candy to be had. Some searched along the floor while others gazed in confusion at the unproductive gaping donkey belly. The room filled with raucous laughter as everyone realized what had happened. I mouthed to the hubby, (Do they not come with candy in them??) and he replied helpfully, (I don't know - this was your idea.) Known for my quick thinking, I grabbed the nearest bowl off the table, this one filled with chips, and threw it into the air while shouting things like "Hooray!" and "Whoopee!!"
The children were now thoroughly confused as chips rained down upon their heads. The ones who were still looking up at the donkey got salt in their eyes and began to cry. One tried to eat a falling crisp and choked. While his mother raised his left arm and whacked him on the back, the wise lesbian aunt with no kids of her own was actually rolling on the floor laughing, holding her sides and getting chip crumbs in her hair, while the rest of the room maintained general uproar. Therefore, no one noticed the shy dog slipping amongst them all, gobbling up the fallen snacks until one very young child went for a chip the dog had already claimed. The sweet pitbull immediately yielded, but the toddler was spooked, anticipating an injury that didn't come to pass. His wails alerted his parents, who had been certain it was dangerous and perhaps even criminally negligent to have such a beast at a children's party, and they flew into a frenzy of rage and fear. So eager were they to find their child mauled, they began to strip him of all clothing, including his dirty diaper, in search of phantom wounds. At the site of a completely naked, crying, slightly $#!t-stained child, my husband dialed 911. My shrieks of "He's fine! He's fine!! Hang up the damn phone!" pealing through all the others screams, coughs, wails, cries, and (yes) still more laughter were not well received by the operator, and squad cars were dispatched.
Fortunately, or not as the case may be, one was in the immediate vicinity due to a call from an uninvited neighbor complaining of all the cars parked in our circle. Law enforcement was soon at our door, busily misinterpreting the situation. I've mentioned how shy and nervous our hound is, but he is a also a good and faithful guard dog. Uniforms or not, the officers were clearly intruders, and one was already brandishing a baton, which perhaps even reminded the dog of the pinata bat that had recently led to all this turmoil. They were surely up to no good, and his leap upon them was swift and (seemingly) fierce. The baton-wielding cop brought his weapon alonsgside the dog's abdomen, which was now full of sweets and saturated fats. The poor animal's rear end erupted in a horizontal volcano of diarrhea, blasting one grandmother and two of her friends from choir with a veritable confetti gun of crap. Expressions of shock, dismay, and horror now interspersed amid the laughter and tears, and the stricken ladies sat, stunned, with poop particles in their hair, brown mist on their glasses, and stains seeping into their strands of pearls. Beside them, the stoned interloper, formerly the bass player for the band Contempt, nodded his head and laughed soundlessly as he said, "Dude, now it's a party."
So there you go. That is my contribution this Mothers Day. Cheers to all you moms out there who make every event in their children's lives a special memory.
