Doofus. Of. The. Parking. Lot.
I swallowed my pride and my stupidity (the stupidity was the bigger pill in this case), thanked her for her help, and moseyed out the door with my head held high. Fake it ’til you make it and all that.
When I popped the professor’s car seat back into its base, I thanked my lucky stars he was still sleeping and missed his mom showing her behind to everyone within five aisles of the strollers. And let’s not forget the people in the parking lot who witnessed my one-manned wrestling match and subsequent stomping fit.
My parking space wasn’t as primo as the first time, but still near the door, so I stowed that puppy in the “win” column. I hauled the stroller out of the trunk and made it my bitch in two point two seconds. A touch of a button and a flick of the wrist. Easy peasy.
I clicked the still snoozing professor’s car seat into the stroller, grabbed my purse, and reached for the … where’s the … I could’ve sworn the diaper bag was …
You’ve got to be kidding me!
I distinctly remembered placing the diaper bag in the shopping cart at Babys-R-Us, but did I take it out?
Doofus. Of. The. Parking. Lot.
After wrangling the professor’s car seat out of the stroller (yet another nifty hidden release button to make me feel like an idiot), I break down the stroller and zoom back over to Babys-R-Us to find the employee behind the customer service desk dangling the damn diaper bag on one finger and doing a horrific job at hiding her smirk. My head wasn’t held nearly as high on the second go-round.
A less determined woman would have tossed her crap in the car and raced home in tears. A woman made of thinner skin would have locked the doors of her house and declared she and the kiddo weren’t leaving again until he turned twenty.
But I am not that woman. I am the doofus of the parking lot, and I will persevere!
The professor and I made it to Baby Gap that day. He looked like a rock star at that birthday party, and I count our shopping trip as a hard fought, not pretty in the least, check in the “win” column.
The professor slept through the entire debacle, never opening his eyes to see the hot mess express that was his mom. He remained blissfully ignorant of the iffy state of his mom’s sanity.
There’s always tomorrow.
Chapter 3
Lesson 2
Even the Best of Intentions Can Wind Up at the Hospital
When I graduated from nursing school, the professor was nearly four years old. I’ll never forget seeing him hitched up on my husband’s hip in the back of the auditorium as I walked across that stage to get my degree. I wanted to etch the moment into his memory like it was burned into mine. I wanted him to know—this is what hard work looks like, this is what striving for your dreams feels like. I wanted him to know that he could be anything he wanted to be if he set his mind to it.
Of course, he has no recollection of that day, but he’s watched me nurse my butt off for the last eight years. Whether it be giving his Pop diabetes medication or helping a woman seizing in the parking lot, he’s seen me in action and has always acted so proud.
So when he shoved his outstretched thumb into my face as we drove to school one morning, he expected me to have all the answers.
“My thumb hurts really bad, Mom,” he whined, and I inspected it thoroughly once I got to a stoplight.
Redness? A little bit, yes.
Swollen? Nope, not really.
Any cut or wound? No.
Nothing alarming, as far as I was concerned, so I told him, “It doesn’t look like anything serious right now, so we’ll just keep an eye on it, ‘kay?”
He nodded at me, looking a little dejected, and continued inspecting his thumb. I nodded back, feeling sure he probably just had a hang nail or bent his fingernail back during a hard-fought game of four square. The professor’s a pretty active little dude—I’ve had to cut his fingernails just to get the dirt out more times than I care to count. So it’s not farfetched to assume he’d inflicted a little damage that would heal up in no time. Nothing that required medical attention, for sure. It’s an unspoken rule among most nurses that we don’t grace the doors of a doctor’s office, and most definitely not the ER unless a bone is broken, an appendage has been lobbed off, or the bleeding can’t be contained after several attempts. And I mean several.
But that afternoon when I picked up the professor from school, I was reminded of another reason a nurse may knock down the door of a doctor’s office. That reason would be a single red line running up his arm, starting at the thumb that looked completely harmless just that morning. A few hours later, and that sucker was flaming red, swollen, and angry.
“That does not look good, dude,” I told him as I scrolled through my phone for the number to the doctor’s office.
“Nope,” he agreed, looking a little more “I told you so” than I appreciated.
“Wash. Your. Hands,” I chided as I made the call to the doctor’s office. Luckily, they agreed to see us right away. “How many times have I told you to wash your hands. There’s germs everywhere, man.”
The professor being the professor, I was met with a long sigh and a none-too-subtle eye roll. Me being me, I carried on with my hygiene sermon right up until the doctor entered the exam room.
Kids are filthy animals.
You are a kid.
Hence, you are a filthy animal.
Germs are partying like it’s 1999 all over your filthy butt, right now as we speak.
The doctor got right down to business, examining the professor’s thumb and the foreboding red line inching its way up his arm. It terrified me how quickly this situation had spiraled out of control—clearly not a good sign. I waited patiently for the doctor to explain the gravity of the situation to him. I awaited the inevitable lecture about germs, hand hygiene, and the fact that kids were indeed filthy damn animals.
Instead, he angled the professor’s thumb in my direction and pointed to where his fingernail met his nail bed. “You see this right here, Mom?” he asked me, with a smile.
I nodded, a little confused as to where he was going with this.
“His nail is separated from his nail bed, and the reason why is because his fingernails have been cut way too short.”
I thought back to the last time I’d trimmed the professor’s nails … it was just last weekend after he had an “adventure” in the cane field behind our house. His shoes were caked with mud, his face sunburned, and as usual, his nails were basically tattooed with dirt. Like so many times before, I had to clip those suckers clean.
“Okay …” I replied, still not sure where he was going with this.
“So when his nail was cut that short, it allowed the bacteria to enter. That’s how we’ve gotten to this point.”
I nodded my head in understanding, but it took me a hot second to comprehend what he was saying. Did he just … was I the one that …
Oh shit.
Now, the professor may be a filthy animal, but he’s also a smart little thing that’s real quick to catch on. He launched out of his chair in two seconds flat and pointed an accusatory, infected thumb in my direction.
“You! Ha-ha! It’s your fault, not mine!” He barked out a laugh and widened his eyes in amazement, and dare I say, a whole lot of triumph. The fool hollered so loudly, I’d bet that the parents and kids in the neighboring exam rooms heard every word of my horror and humiliation.
My thoughts stuttered and stopped like a discombobulated whirlwind as the word vomit commenced. “But I had to … I didn’t mean to … he was just so dirty!”
As Doc carried on about separated nail beds and antibiotics, a highlight reel of my failure as a mother and a nurse played on repeat in my head. My mom with crossed arms, shaking her head in disappointment … the PTA queens with their tight yoga pants and perfect butts, looking down their surgically engineered noses at me while eating organic, made-from-scratch oatmeal bars … Florence Nightingale, wrestling my stethoscope away from me to beat
me senseless with it.
Who was I kidding? I was obviously as senseless as they came since I had just tried to kill my only child—the fruit of my loins—with a pair of nail clippers.
“… Admit to the hospital for IV antibiotics …”
The words screeched through the room like a needle scratching across a record.
“Wait. What did you say? The hospital?”
How in the shit am I going to explain this to my husband?
What in the hell am I going to tell my mom?
What would it take to bribe the professor to keep the origin of this fiasco between the two of us?
Don’t even judge. You can’t know my pain until you’ve walked a mile in my ugly-as-hell-but-damn-comfy Crocs.
“I was only saying that if the high dose antibiotics I’m prescribing don’t turn this around in the next twenty-four hours, then we may have to admit him to the hospital for IV antibiotics. But I’m hoping we can fight this with oral medications. You’ll just have to keep a close eye on him and let us know immediately if his condition isn’t improving.”
“Yes, sir. You don’t need to worry about that,” I assured him, fighting back the tears of embarrassment and defeat.
How could I have let this happen? What am I saying? I didn’t let this happen. I actually caused it. For the love of all that is holy, would I ever get this mom thing right?
Doc must have sensed the internal beatdown I had going on, and he stopped me on the way out of the exam room. He squeezed my shoulder and smiled. “You didn’t starve him. You didn’t slip rat poison into his oatmeal. You were an attentive mom who was just a little overzealous in caring for him. It’s not the same thing.”
I told the truth when we got home that day. I didn’t bribe the professor, but he did get some ice cream while waiting for his antibiotics. It was the least I could do for his trouble. And I watched that damn thumb like it was the most important job in the world.
Because it was.
We still laugh about it.
“Hey, you remember that time you almost killed me with some nail clippers?”
“Ha-ha, laugh it up, you little jerk.”
So would I ever get this mom thing right? No, probably not. I’m going to stumble, trip over my own feet, and fall flat on my face more often than not. And then I’m going to jump back up, laugh it off, and give the professor a big squeeze.
The little jerk.
Chapter 4
Final Lesson - 3
No Matter What, Do You
I have no doubt I’ll take the professor on more wild goose chases, resulting in the occasional bump or bruise and the obligatory mom shaming. But I also know the journey will be a blast, and I’ll always put a band-aid on the boo-boos. Unless something falls off, that is. Then it’s straight to the hospital we go!
And I will always root for him. He can count on me to be his biggest cheerleader. Little does he know, he’s already been that for me.
I was a daydreamer for years before I wrote a single word. Stories that I had no intention of ever letting see the light of day flitted through my mind on a never-ending loop. I didn’t dare to think I could do anything productive with my daydreams. What in the world made me think that I could write an actual book? And who would want to read anything that I wrote anyway?
Fast forward to the professor’s last day of third grade, where he had already snagged his honor roll award. No perfect attendance, though. Not a year goes by without at least one day of playing hooky.
“I have a very special award to end the ceremony with today. All of our students wrote poems to enter into the Young Author’s Contest this year. We chose a poem from every grade to move on to the parish contest, and one of our third graders won!” The crowd applauded, and when the room quieted, the principle continued. “That poem moved onto the state competition with all the other winners in Louisiana. And it won first prize.” Even more boisterous applause broke out through the auditorium as she held a book and medal up for us to see.
“A big congratulation goes out to … Professor DeRouen!”
I politely clapped and smiled for the student … then I realized what she had just said. He won? My professor won?
I couldn’t stifle my puffed up chest or the burst of pride I felt for my little man as the principal placed the medal around his neck. When the awards program was over, the professor proudly displayed his medal and the book with his published poem. And when I flipped to the page and saw his printed words, that’s when it hit me.
Our son was a published author. OUR SON was a published author.
Then I read the first line of his award-winning poem.
“My mom asked me what I wanted to be,
And I said all I want to be is me.”
And that’s the day the professor taught me his most important lesson. Or maybe we taught each other …
Not long after that, I stood in front of my husband, all nerves as I wrung my hands and blurted out, “I think I wanna write a book.”
I’m not sure what I expected him to say in response. Just five years prior, after years in the marketing field, I had blurted out, “I think I wanna be a nurse.” In my defense, the nurse thing turned out swimmingly, so I was one-for-one, right? In his defense, he was beyond supportive during those three years of craziness and bragged about me to his friends every chance he got.
“Check out my wife. She’s wicked smart.”
His glasses may be a teeny bit rose-colored, but I’ll take it.
So I’m not sure why his simple, “Okay, what do you need?” surprised me. He researched the heck out of computers and ordered me a shiny new Mac within a month of my declaration. Just like every time before, he was ready and willing to bet on his wife. He’s kind of cool that way.
Watch out professor, here I go, being me. And I’ve never looked back.
A couple of years later, on the way home from school, the professor confessed, “You know, I read one of your books the other day.”
I tried my best to hold in my laughter and scowled. “Hey man, you know my books aren’t for kids.”
He scowled and looked out the window. “Don’t worry; I didn’t get far. I didn’t like it very much.” He shrugs and widens his big brown eyes, looking incredulous. “There wasn’t any fighting. Or magic.”
I guess his lesson that day centered around perspective.
These days, I try not to fret so much about if I’m doing this parenting thing right. Is there even really such a thing? Rather than focus on right and wrong, I try my best to lead by example, teach him to follow the golden rule, and last, but certainly not least, love him. Just love him.
Now that pesky virtue called patience? Yeah, I’m still trying to get a handle on that one. We can’t all be perfect, and I have no desire to be. At the end of the day, we all just do the best we can, hoping they find their way in this whacked out world with maximum joy and minimal therapy bills. At the end of the day, in the wise words of the professor, “I just want to be me. “
About the Author
J.A. DEROUEN RESIDES IN South Louisiana with her husband, son (aptly nicknamed “The Professor”), and her furry friend, Scout. She has earned bachelor’s degrees in psychology and nursing. When she's not writing or inhaling romance novels by the stack, she works as a women's health nurse. She’s been an avid reader and daydreamer since childhood, and she's never stopped turning the page to get to the next happily ever after.
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Available Titles by J.A. DeR
ouen:
Hope Over Fear (The Over Series #1)
Wings Over Poppies (The Over Series #2)
Storms Over Secrets (The Over Series #3)
Low Over High (The Over Duet #1)
Ever Over After (The Over Duet #2)
A Day in My Chaotic Life
Claudia Burgoa
A Day in My Chaotic Life
Claudia Burgoa
© Claudia Burgoa 2017
A Day in My Chaotic Life
Motherhood isn’t what I expected. What was I expecting, you might ask?
Well, let’s start by telling you that I grew up with two brothers. We are triplets. Multiple children aren’t easy, but we were fun. At least I think we were. Unless you ask my parents. Their side of the story s different. When they sit around the dinner table and begin to recount our childhood, it sounds like Freddy Krueger, Chucky, and Hannibal Lecter reincarnated. The repertoire of horror stories they tell our significant others are infinite. I doubt they'll run out of them…ever.
It never starts with, “Ainsley was the most adorable little girl you have seen. The boys were so much fun.”
No, it goes something like, “Remember that time when they tried to prove that chickens could fly?”
We had a few incidents. Mostly Jacob and Matthew, my brothers. They almost burnt down my grandparents’ house on New Year’s Eve when we were seven. Who knew that you should never ignite fireworks inside the house? Everyone but the boys. Once I asked myself if microwaves exploded if we put aluminum foil inside. I said it out loud, and my brothers jumped into action. In my defense, it was a hypothetical question. I was young and naïve—well, just young. I confess that I knew my brothers would do something. They both loved fire so much. They obsessed over how to could start it without a lighter or matches.
#MomFail: 24 Authors & 24 Mom-Coms Page 9
