We are so excited to announce our very first guest writer, Ellen Brosnahan!  This special lady is a former middle school English teacher, a Chicago-area native, a mother of two, a grandma to four, a talented writer and the best aunt I could ask for.  All of you mommies out there will relate to this story!

Evening the Score

Ellen Brosnahan    (July 2011)

My sister-in-law was the kindergarten helper mom when my nephew piped up, “I love you so much, Mommy, that I want to have sex with you!”  “No,” she assured his teacher, “I have no idea where he heard such a thing.”

To this day, she slumps under the weight of her Mommy Trophy of Embarrassment. But what mommy hasn’t stepped up to the podium to accept hers?  We’ve crammed our imaginary display cases with tarnished statuettes and loving cups.

Even my grandmother.  Long, long ago, Grandma led her neighbor into her baby‘s room to show off the little cherub.  Behold! My aunt, diaperless, was adorning the wall above the crib with her feces.

My mother took my three-year-old self on a long bus ride up Western Avenue, where I was curious about another passenger. “Mommy, why is that man’s face brown? Is his face dirty?” I boomed. Our stop wasn’t for miles.

Another friend’s three-year-old Picasso decorated a neighbor’s car, using a Sharpee as his medium.

And what is it about retail that makes kids pull out all the stops? Moms amass Trophies of Humiliation by the cartload, right in front of neighbors. Enough to make one plant a For Sale sign in the yard, and high-tail it to points unknown.

A friend left her youngest of seven at the Jewel, drove home, sent the brood off to the neighborhood pool. She never missed him until the store manager called her. Her little boy greeted her with, “Why did you leave me here?” She hadn’t meant to, she explained, and narrowly avoided a DCFS report.

My granddaughter warred with her brother over a Trader Joe’s kiddie cart. My daughter- in- law carried both combatants to the car, one under each arm. No groceries that day. Maybe it’s in the DNA. When their daddy was a toddler, he waged a sit-down strike in a cereal aisle over a box of Count Chocula.

Mommy Embarrassment takes no vacation. When a now-respected architect was five, he helped himself to coins in a hotel’s fountain, then treated himself to candy bars at the gift shop, before his mother caught on to his scam. At least no one there recognized the perpetrator or his family.

Yep, we‘ve all earned a trophy or two. Today, I saw a mom in church earn a Stanley Cup.

It was 7:30 Mass, and an all-American family — husband and wife, three well-scrubbed kids –arrived, a bright spot  in a sea of gray-haired empty-nesters.

In no time things went south.  Little Boy marched a Poke-mon on the kneeler until Bigger Boy wanted a turn.

“Gimmee!”

“It’s mine.”

“Gimmee.”

“No, stupid!”

They crashed on the oak pew, scuffled and snatched at the prize.  Mom grabbed Bigger Boy and planted him on her other side. Wrestling match ended; peace restored.

But the little guy had more mayhem in mind. He slid down the pew, bounced into the aisle and high-tailed it to the front…  just as the priest approached the pulpit to speak the Gospel . Run-run-run to the front, run-run-run to the back. Front, back, front, back.

Mom slipped to the rear of the aisle to grab the little imp when he got close. But no luck, and he dashed off once more.

What Would Mommy Do?  Would she scream, “Get back here, you little beast.” Play Wile E. Coyote to his Roadrunner? Leave church and hop in her minivan, never to be seen again? I mentally spun through my dusty old Mommy rolodex of solutions, until I remembered that this was not my problem.

The priest sermonized; no one listened. Raucous giggles and the thunk-thunk of sneakers muffled the message, but who cared? The bright-eyed little spawn of the devil was directing a real-life drama. He had Mommy right where he wanted her – helpless.

Mommy hissed and “Come here,” but ha! As if! She paced behind the pews, up one aisle, across the back, then up the other aisle, signaling “Get back here!”  He paid no mind. She wiped a tear.

The fugitive’s daddy,  flanked by his two perfect progeny, stared straight ahead as if transfixed by the Word of the Lord, while Mommy whispered “sorry, sorry” to the congregants she passed.

Finally Mom hatched a plan and whispered to her husband. The reluctant draftee to the front line slid into position. Mom advanced up the aisle, like Uhrlacher bearing down for a tackle. The escapee eyed her and darted hither and yon at the altar steps. Here she comes! She’s getting closer! The boy about-faced down the aisle. Interception!  Dad swooped in, hoisted him over his shoulders, and carried him out of church. Nike-ed feet kicked the air.

The show was over.

Mom slunk back to her seat, and I could almost see her heart hammering. Eventually her blood pressure must have hit normal, and with arms encircled the shoulders of her other two, she prayed. Was it Give me strength, dear Lord, or Don’t let me kill him?

Dad and the renegade never returned. Finally, the priest said, “Go, the Mass is ended,” and Mom’s shoulders slumped in relief.

So, Mom, you did your best. At the next girls’ night out, sip your chardonnay and show off your hardware. “Wait ‘til you hear…”

And here’s a suggestion.

One day, your little boy will be a teenager.

He’ll expect you to drive him somewhere. He’ll slump in the back seat, rolling his eyes and grunting at your attempts at conversation.

“Have fun,” you’ll say.

He’ll snort. “Whatever.” Without a thanks or a wave, your young man will slither out of the car.

Watch him saunter up to his friends, a bunch of uber-surly boys and maybe a pretty girl or two.  Now’s your chance.

Roll down the car window. Hang your head all the way out.

Yell, and I mean  yell, “Yoohoo, sweetie-pie!”

“Yoohoo!”

Keep hollering until he looks our way. He won’t want to, but someone will nudge him. “Hey, dude, isn’t that your mom?”

He’ll be forced to peek out from under his shaggy ‘do.

When you have his attention, along with that of every other kid, yell one more time. “Yoo hoo,sweetie! You look so cute today! I love you, snookums!”

Wave – both hands. Blow kisses, lots of them.

Honk a peppy little “Shave and a Haircut.”

And drive away.

You’ve waited years to exact your revenge.

Savor it, sister.