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Wednesday, August 10, 2016

#badmoms #goodmoms #bestmoms

Every year I'm overcome with jealousy when I see a “Mother of the Year” award and realize all too quickly, I wasn't even considered. What's it take to achieve this coveted prize? How many children must she have? Can she work outside of the home? How attentive to her kids does she really need to be?

Last Thursday night, our local theater hosted a Ladies Night with a showing of Bad Moms. It was a splendid affair with prizes and gifts sponsored by the Harlan Theater and Megan Sorensen of Chloe+Isabel jewelry. My friend Amy and I decided to make a night of it, suffering through a pedicure and meeting other moms for drinks before the movie. It took a took a lull in kids' activities and a small favor from God to make this happen. But it did happen. Moms Night Out.

I won’t lie. It was more fun than a soccer game. The theater roared with belly laughter over the assault of one-liners, terrifically catered to mothers. There’s something deeply satisfying about watching another mom’s messy life, especially when that mom is a ten-ish Mila Kunas who happens to capture the attention of your husband as she brands whiskey barrels.

Not to spoil the movie, but a few of the lines imprinted on me:

  • “We're not quitters! Quitters are for dads.”
  • “The best thing about a mom party is that it’s over by 11.”

  • "I love my babies so much. God. They hate me."

And a million more zingers. Really. A million.

Now, for some irony. I like to pride myself on my maternal intuition. Well, it’s either intuition or an unwarranted sense of worry, I’m not sure yet. But on this mom-movie night, as I was laughing it up with my friends, not a bit worried about the whereabouts of my family, something was happening. While I sat drinking my Select 55 at the Westside, I had not noticed texts coming in to me. Especially the one of the tornado next to the soccer field where my son was set to scrimmage. 

I had no inkling he was in danger! So much for my maternal intuition! Did it go haywire? Obviously, guilt doused me as soon as I comprehended the facts. What if he would’ve been killed? While I was in the bar, drinking? What kind of mother am I? Why did I think it was so important to go out with the girls? Did I really need to curl my hair? (Not sure why that question was relevant, but it did go through my mind.)

Bad Mom.

After  the show, I confirmed the safety of my son in the bathroom of another mom's home. Carrying a speck of guilt, we moms continued the party in the spirit the show.  Oh, it got wild. We invaded the man cave. Non-driving moms were doing shotskis. We joked about men's appendages. We passed around our phones, bragging of our cute kids. Then, at the exact same time, we moms stood up, was time to go. The clock struck 10:59 p.m. I’m not even kidding.

There’s not a mom I know who doesn’t fret about whether they’re raising their kids right. Should I let her eat Cheetos with its red dye #6 for breakfast? How did I let him watch Family Guy? Did I shout too loudly at the soccer game? The list never ends.

Cole and I were cleaning his room this weekend when I came across a college-ruled paper with some of his scribblings. I began to read it, and instantly my heart transformed from being judgy about his filthy habits to being happy about his goodness. The paper was called, "What My Mother Means to Me." It was beyond sweet and to give you a taste of the theme, he outlined his main points at the top:

  1. She listens to my gibberish.
  2. She likes to talk to me.

It ended like this: I love my mom. I hope you love yours too.

Are you crying yet?

Good Mom.

A friend and I were discussing how kids can really test their mothers. It's because they know they can. They can forget their homework or poop on the carpet or feed broccoli to the dog. They know we'll still love them. No matter what.

Best Moms.

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