My Outsourced Motherhood

Thank God Mother’s Day is over.

If I had to read, listen to, or watch one more Very Special Tribute to a Very Special Mom (shot in soft focus and featuring the kind of music typically found in a douche commercial), I would have heaved a tire iron through my television screen.

While the idea of having a whole day dedicated to the celebration of me is pleasant, in actuality it just makes my shortcomings even MORE blazingly obvious. How could there possibly be so many Ultra SuperTerrific HappyMothers out there? They bake! They sew! They wipe away tears and pick chunks of snot! They flip burgers for the homeless and change bedpans for the elderly! These specimens of womanly perfection make the Dalai Lama look like Paris Hilton.

If I had a spare moment, I’d use it to feel bad for The Boy and The Girl, as they will never experience such a blissful level of idyllic parent-child codependency. And I work full time, so I’ve had to subcontract about three-quarters of my motherly duties anyway. As such, I sleep OK at night knowing if they ARE messed up, it’s technically someone else’s fault, not a direct consequence of my own parenting techniques.

With the pinkwashed torrent of sentimentality behind us, for what it’s worth (actually, $68,000 a year, according to salary.com) I’d like to thank the collection of household staff, paid caregivers, recurring services, unwitting volunteers, and other domestic helpers that have helped make me the mother I am today:

To Silvia and John, our first day care providers: Somehow, your foul-smelling goulashes succeeded in tricking my children into eating a staggering range of vegetables, the likes of which they won’t even be in the same room with now that they’re coherent. Someday I hope to get at least one of the kids to eat squash again, and if I do, I will remember you fondly.

To Martha, our cleaning lady: Thank you for your bi-weekly attempts to transform our house from a Scottish pay toilet to a reasonably hygienic place to live. I especially appreciate that you manage to get rid of the gobs of SpongeBob toothpaste that wind up caked all over the bathroom vanity. I can’t afford to pay you any more than I do, but if I ever win the lottery, I’m giving you a fat bonus AND buying you a gold-plated Dyson DC-15.

To Kenny at Sea Breeze Dry Cleaners: Your reasonable prices and convenient location have allowed me to keep my strict no-iron streak intact (going on 13 years now). And whatever it is you do to my barfed, boogered, and bloodied items of clothing, I bow to your prowess as the Stain Whisperer.

To Karen and Allisha at Arena Gymnastics: Thank you for the second straight year of patiently trying to teach The Girl how to do a cartwheel, even though I can sense from the looks in your eyes that it might be a lost cause. And thanks to all of the Stamford Youth Soccer coaches that help keep The Boy motivated by pretending that winning isn’t everything, especially because his team gets slaughtered on a weekly basis.

To our Holy Trinity of Takeout (aka Boston Market, Kit’s Thai Kitchen, and Domino’s Pizza): Thank you for your continued existence. Without you, my family would be subsisting on a weekly diet of rice cakes, frozen turkey sausage, and rotting bananas.

And last but certainly not least,To Megan, our ex-so-much-more-than-a-babysitter: I have always marveled at how you could be so patient, loving, and kind. Possibly you are not very bright, or perhaps you are hard of hearing. But regardless, the kids STILL ask for you all of the time, even though you left for California more than six months ago. Will you PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE move back to the East Coast? I forgive you for drinking competitive product in the house, and I'll even apologize for teaching the kids to tell you that only mean people drink Diet Coke. Come back. Please. Seriously.