SuperMom

"Look, there goes SuperMom!"

I can't believe she was talking about me. I was uncomfortable. I don't really like being on someone's pedestal because I have three more children then they do. And I didn't feel like SuperMom, hauling a squirming Max out like a sack of potatoes while pushing Princess Thumbsucker in the stroller, hoping against hope that The Actress, The Artist, and Little Mommy were following along. I felt like an exhibit passing a half dozen trim and together people.

We were leaving ballet at the gym, on our way home for dinner. And I had no idea what we might be eating.

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My friend has been sick. I have wished so much that I could make it all better for her. But I can't. So I have done what I could to reach out. Far more domestic than I might ever be, she has always cooked a real breakfast from scratch for her family. I don't know that they had ever used paper plates. Her home is neat and orderly, with properly labeled toy bins. I have wished I could be more like that for over a decade now.

I offered her a glimpse into how to simplify. I was adamant that she accept paper plates, at least for a while. I bought her a 600 pack from Sam's Club. I know how to cut corners in the domestic department. I just wish I could learn how to get to the corners.

I took care of birthday festivities last month for her daughter, Little Mommy's best friend. I invited two other little girls and their moms and young siblings to join us at Pump-it-Up, and then we had pizza and cupcakes at my house for lunch. I ran out of time to clean properly, and wished I had. I forgot to pull out the the special dessert plates or the ice cream--ice cream I had made a special stop at Walgreens for on the way to the house. I didn't think to serve drinks to the adults until after they had left. Truthfully, I was exhausted.

But I just couldn't let go of how I had failed on the day. The parts I had left undone or forgotten. I even emailed the guests to apologize for my lack of hospitality.

It was Max's birthday too, and I spent way too much of the day feeling frustrated in the many ways I came up short. I hope I hid it from the kids.

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"Did you make cheerleading again?"

I hesitated. I didn't want to answer. This woman had a daughter my age and I often felt her resentment at my accomplishements. She judged me, and my family too, assuming that we lived charmed lives. Truthfully, I usually made whatever I tried out for.

"Yes."

"Well, you always get what you want." She said it almost scornfully, and I winced inside. She had never actually spoken that harshly to me before.

She had no idea what life was like for me. Yes, I was born with some God-given talents, but I also pulled my first all-nighter in the 8th grade. The first year I made the cheer squad, I slaved away for hours and hours with a older friend from church. She had coached me as I drilled the routine over and over again. I about sobbed at the end of each day of practice because I was so physically and emotionally drained. I took a lot of ibuprofen that week just so I could function.

But my tryout was near perfect. I had paid the price to make it so.

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Crap.

The door wouldn't open. "You've got to be kidding me!" I spoke the words of frustration aloud. I
was sweaty and looked awful. I probably didn't smell so rosy either. It was time to race to Little Mommy's preschool for pick-up, and I had left just enough time. Just enough time if things went smoothly.

Only minutes before I had been running full speed on my treadmill, for mental as well as physical health. I can't imagine how stressed I might be if I hadn't had those exercise-induced endorphins flowing through my body.

The Artist and I tried all of the doors. I willed one of them to be unlocked. No luck. I went frantically searching for the spare key. Where could it be? I bolted upstairs to Mr. Bloomer's dresser. I checked all of the coat pockets. Why wasn't it in its proper place? I emailed Mr. Bloomers with an urgent subject line. He suggested his dresser. I was in trouble.

Months earlier our home phone had stopped working. I hadn't had it repaired. Truthfully, sometimes I really just wish I could be anonymous, and since everyone who might really need us has my cell or email, I felt justified in procrastinating. Now I regretted my choice. My cell was locked in the car too.

And so were Max and Princess. And Princess was hungry.

Some SuperMom I was! I couldn't figure out how I had locked the car. The doors was unlocked when I loaded the little kids. I had tossed my keys and phone over the headrest onto the front seat, buckled a defiant and uncooperative Max, and quickly closed the rear passenger door. And then the door was locked. All of them were. The Presidential Suburban was airtight and my babies were inside.

In my only stroke of genius for the day, I emailed Mr. Bloomers again, instructing him to call the school immediately with the hope that Little Mommy could ride the bus home. He couldn't get through at first. I prayed that this would work. He finally connected with her teacher and I breathed a small sigh of relief.

But I had no idea what to do next. Call a locksmith? Call a friend? What friend would I even call? I despise asking people for help, unless I am paying them, or have helped them recently, or they have specifically offered the service in question. I really didn't want to pay a locksmith for my stupidity.

I ransacked the home again in a desperate search for the spare key. While the Artist continued to keep the captive children entertained through the window, I did an online search for "Suburban break-in." After a pathetic attempt to follow some instructions from a website, I realized I simply did not have what it took to be a car thief. I had to accept help.

Mr. Bloomers had suggested the Sheriff. I looked up the number and contemplated going to the neighbor's to use the phone. But I didn't want to leave the house until Little Mommy was home. And I didn't really want to share my embarrassment with the neighbors either.

Little Mommy arrived, and the bus driver suggested I call the Sheriff. Defeated, I emailed Mr. Bloomers with the number so he could make the call. And then I waited. And waited. The prisoners were restless. I felt so deeply sad for them, and nauseously responsible for their plight. I sang to them while we waited, and sent The Artist for puppets.

The first Sheriff finally arrived. She'd been at the school but had heard the call over the radio and hurried down. Because she wasn't the official respondent, someone else would be there soon. She was so kind in assuring me that this sort of thing happens all the time, even to her when her dogs lock themselves in.

Within three minutes, the door was unlocked and my babies were free. I held them both so tightly, enveloping their trembling little bodies in my Mama Bear arms.

By this time the other Sheriff had arrived. I was struck with what the scene appeared to be, with two patrol cars blocking the end of my driveway, facing opposite directions. I looked like the local drug house. Delightful.

One of the neighbors walked out of his house, and couldn't help but stare at the display. I tried to shrug it off, "I just locked the two littlest ones in the car."

He didn't audibly respond, but got in his car and drove away, leaving me to sign the paperwork authorizing the Sheriff to break into my vehicle.

Several minutes later I glanced out the window. The first Sheriff had been replaced with yet a third patrol car, and they were still there. I really DID look like the local drug house.

Maybe I liked it better when people thought I was Supermom.

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Or maybe it's less about what others think of me, and more about what I think of myself. I used to be someone who could accomplish whatever I set my mind to, no matter what the cost.

And now with five small children, I just can't keep up with my own expectations anymore. And it really is quite a blow to the self-image. Do you think SuperMom knows how to prioritize? To choose which things to let go and be at peace with the consequences? If so, maybe I would like to learn how to be her after all.

Any tips on how to do it?