mother of the year (un)acceptance speech

BY REBECCA M. ROSS

Thank you, thank you. I am so honored to have even been considered for the Mother Of The Year Award, and I really feel like it would be wrong of me to accept this beautiful trophy cup, covered in a collage of, what is this? Toilet paper and macaroni? And rainbow sparkles? Oh, I'm sorry. Yes, yes, tissue paper. And look at that, it's one of those self-destructing projects. It's already starting to go to pieces in my hands. How wonderful! Well, at least I don’t have to worry about the dog eating the dried pasta and sparkles since they don't allow dogs in this beautiful school auditorium.

I know that the decision to whom to give this award was very difficult, and having four children, I certainly had the advantage of more votes coming my way. It also helped that the voting public is aware that I bake extraordinary brownies (no, not the special kind; we gave those up a few years ago after accidentally getting totally baked before that PTA meeting to welcome the new principal after the district spelling bee. Can you spell disaster, boys and girls?). I also understand that most mothers weren't even entered this year due to that not-so-little incident a few months back when the majority of the school's mothers rallied in support of legalizing post-natal abortion through age 18. So, perhaps this decision wasn't really that difficult, given that I am friends with the PTA president who, in her transgendered goddessness, has brought new meaning to the phrase "Woman Of The Year." I know what you're thinking but I don’t think that because I used to sleep with Maddie back when she was Matt (oh, those college nights!) is really an issue. I mean, really, there are so few people I haven't slept with. But I digress.

I can't say that I particularly deserve this honor. This past year I've been through a lot and grace was something that didn't come naturally to my handling of most situations. Hell, I don't even think I know what grace is. Like, there was the day that I was strung out on Advil and coffee, knowing full well that the migraine I had was just a prelude to my much-dreaded period (which is, ironically, more like the beginning of a sentence than the end to one) and finally, when it arrived (from where, Paris?) I went into the drawer where I keep a nice supply of OB, only to find that my toddlers had unwrapped each tampon and pulled the strings out, so that they were now just dangling puffs of cotton on light blue strings. Being somewhat creative, I tossed them into the dryer for twenty minutes so they’d become fluffy and then we hung them from the Christmas tree to look like snow balls. Did I yell at the kids before channeling my inner Martha Stewart? Hell, yeah. They're still trembling with fear.

There was also that time when Tyler or Taylor (what is his name again?) was sick. Okay, he was more than just sick. He was puking all over everything. The carpets, the beds, the clean laundry that was folded on the couch. Maybe there are moms out there with compassion who'll scoop their little ones into their arms for a post-barf cuddle. But, like, eww! That was just not happening. First of all, the kid was rank. Just cleaning him up was an exercise in gag-reflexology. And there was the inevitable house clean-up to follow. Who can think of being all lovey-dovey when someone has just tossed their cookies (and cheerios and chocolate milk and grilled cheese and pickles) all over your house?

And what kind of mother isn't allowed to sign her kids up for soccer? Because of me, my kids have been blacklisted from soccer through 2015. Remember that game last fall when it was 35 degrees out but none of us complained about the cold? I was the one in charge of the snacks. The kids had their juice boxes and carrot sticks. And we adults who never get anything? Who made sure there was Jameson on hand? That was me. And everyone was happy until the Team Mom reprimanded me for setting a bad example in front of the kids. I think she was just mad because she was in AA and couldn't partake. So while this makes me a pretty good mom (to know!) I don't think it really qualifies me to be Mother of the Year. Add that to the fact that I don't even like kids and that my biggest biological regret is the uterus, I'd say that I'm a pretty poor excuse for Mother of the Year. But I do thank you for considering me and voting for me --

What?

Are you serious?

Every mother is getting one of these?

Bastards.

Rebecca M. Ross is a fiction writer, playwright, and English teacher with four rambunctious kids who drive her crazy (but usually in a good way.) Her work has been published on Unpious, Scribblers on the Roof, and the New Vilna Review. UNORTHODOX!, Ms. Ross’s newest play, recently had its first public reading. On occasion, she blogs at www.rebeccamross.blogspot.com.