I Am NOT Supermom

If you're a teeny little bit competitive like me, you've caught yourself watching other moms with amazement.  Sometimes it seems like the world is full of mommies who fly through the supermarket with three babies and a binder full of alphabetically-ordered coupons; breeze through security at the airport, folding a double stroller with one hand and pulling snacks out of a diaper bag with the other; or wake up at 4:30 every morning to finish an hour of P90X before whipping together a batch of homemade Spiderman cupcakes for their son's class party.  


I am NOT one of those moms.  I often find myself wishing that I could grab hold of Supermom's cape and ride along through her world of organic meals from the garden, beautiful FINISHED scrapbooks, and freshly mopped floors.  (If you ever want to mop my kitchen, come on over.  I despise mopping!)


Last night I had a particularly non--Supermomish experience.  Emma has been fighting a nasty cough.  I woke up around 2:00 to her voice on the monitor, "Grandma!  Grandma!"  (She wasn't completely delirious; Jeremy's parents were visiting this weekend.)  I went to her room, got her settled down, and headed back to bed.


Forty-five minutes later, she's awake again.  I head back to her room, thinking a few very non-Supermomish thoughts.  I give her some Motrin (exactly what Supermom would do, right?) and convince her that Grandma definitely does not want to play at 2:45am.  


At this point, for some random reason, I realize I am completely starving.  I head to the kitchen and pour myself a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios.  (FYI...Supermom does NOT keep sugary cereal in her cabinet, and she definitely does not eat it at two in the morning.)  I finish my horribly sugar-filled snack, and go to put the Motrin away.  As I slide the bottle back onto the shelf, I hear a loud crash.  Even in the semi-darkness, I can see that I have knocked Emma's glittery purple nail polish off the shelf and onto the ceramic tile below.  Lovely.


By now I am utterly beyond any hope of falling right back into a yummy, dream-filled sleep when I go to bed.  I turn on all the lights and frantically grab a washcloth.  Have you ever tried to clean nail polish off ceramic tile?  It's so not fun.  Thankfully, after twenty minutes of scrubbing and some very non-conventional use of nail polish remover, most of it comes off; but I'm left with one disgusting washcloth and two very glittery purple hands.


Okay...here's the really bad part.  My sister was visiting in February.  She knocked bright red nail polish off the same shelf onto the same section of tile.  Supermom would have learned her lesson then.  Not me.  I just brilliantly bought new nail polish and put it back on the same shelf.  The beige tile that my husband and father-in-law spent hours laying the perfect stair-step pattern I picked out, is quickly starting to look like a glittery red and purple mosaic.


At 3:30, I finally head back to bed, where I lay wide-awake on my pillow.  When I hear someone calling for grandma at four o'clock, it's almost funny.


So, the next time your fingers slip off the hem of Supermom's cape and you find yourself flat on your face in Realmomville, I hope you'll think of me.  As you lay there, picture my desperate scrubbing and my glittery purple hands.  Laugh a little, and remember I'm right there with you.