Last Friday was the Mother’s Day Tea Celebration at my son’s preschool. It was a beautiful sunny morning, and all the little kids presented a song medley. My son didn’t sing, but he danced like he was in a break-dance contest in the 80’s–the kiddos also displayed their art work: a drawing of their moms. On the flip-side of the drawing was a questionnaire that they had answered with help from the teachers.
Out of all the answers in the questionnaire, the second one pierced my heart. When asked, “How old is your mom?” he answered 50!
All the other moms where so ecstatic and proud that their kids gave them fewer years than their real age, while I had to deal with the fact that, for some wild reason, my son thought I already have half a century on my back! For the record I’ll be 36 in June.
He made me laugh to tears, not only because he looked so funny and tall dancing next to his friends–which reminded me of my childhood pictures where I looked like a giant standing beside my classmates–but also because his smart-ass personality is blossoming right before my eyes putting me in panic mode; I just don’t know what is he going to say or do next.
When I got to the office after the celebration, I showed my husband my beautiful drawing—in which, by the way, I look like a cave woman with shaggy hair and no torso–and the answers to the questions. He bluntly said, “Well… you definitely don’t look 50, but you act like it.” I opened my eyes wide and before I could say anything he double dipped, “Let me rephrase that, 50 with dementia.“
As much as I wanted to smother him with my own hands, he was right. I know that I am healthy, but lately, I have been confusing the dates and times of appointments making a mess out of our lives.
Two Saturdays ago, I dressed up, got my son ready, and yelled at my husband to hurry up because we were going to be late for a birthday party. When I checked my email to get the address, I realized the party was on Sunday.
Then, once again, last Saturday I got everybody up and ready to go for my son’s first asthma clinic appointment. When we got to the pediatrician’s office, five minutes before 10 a.m., the receptionist told me–with a look like saying “What is this woman on?”—that his appointment was the following Saturday. I couldn’t believe it.
When I turned to look at my husband, he was smirking and told the nurse, “Can you tattoo the date on her forearm?” He proceeded to rip off three or four good jokes at my expense and had us all laughing hysterically. When we got in the car, he told me that he should have gotten me an R2D2 droid for Mother’s Day that could follow me around, and could set off bells and whistles while yelling “Wake up!” for the reminders in my calendar.
At this point in my life, honestly, what I need is an assistant. The problem is that paying someone else to do all that I do would cost me a fortune! Thank God my husband is very helpful and takes care of many important things such as his prescriptions. Otherwise, he would end up taking the dog’s heart-worm medicine instead of his Lipitor.
Like I have said before, I know I am crazy, but I am good-crazy. Motherhood and marriage definitely shakes up the marbles in my brain, but in the middle of losing my mind, I have matured and learned to see and love the simple things in life.
In 2030, when I turn 50, I will show my son the questionnaire he answered when he was five. I will ask him, “Do I look 50 baby?” and for his own sake he better answer no. Otherwise, I will take the car away and bring him back from college! Payback time baby!
Thanks for reading and sharing.
Xiomara Spadafora
Good crazy woman 