by Heide Fitch

Created on: May 09, 2008

Not Quite Mother of the Year Material!

So I love Oprah. You can mock me, judge me, think less of me. I don't care. I watch her religiously, and she is all about empowering women. All women are beautiful. All women are strong. All mothers are amazing. So yesterday, as I sat sobbing on the bathroom floor, I was wondering what Oprah would think of me now. Here is what transpired:

I had been up really late working the night before (I work from home and so bedtime for the girls means work time for me). Then my girls, in an apparent race to beat the rooster, are up before dawn. And although I am half asleep, I whip up a mean batch of pancakes and eggs, feed both girls, bathe both girls and dress both girls all before 8am. I am on a roll. I leave my 10 month old, Claire, in her highchair with a sippy cup, plop my 3 year old, Cora, at the table with a box of crayons and a coloring book, and race to take a 5 minute shower.

I emerge, wrapped in a towel with hair still dripping, to see how much damage has been done (if you know Cora, you know there will be damage). Crayons all over the floor, not bad. Half the contents of our game closet emptied out, manageable. An entire cup of yogurt spread evenly on both girls after a failed attempt on Cora's part to feed her younger sister; although it is nothing new, I'm officially annoyed.

Still in my towel, I drag both girls back to the bath tub. I get Claire cleaned off, minus the yogurt that has found a permanent home inside her ear, and dressed, again. I take her to the playroom hoping to buy me enough time to retrieve Cora. In the time it takes me to pluck Cora from the bath, wrap her in a towel and set her on the couch, Claire has managed to find the only black, permanent marker in the entire house not under lock and key. Like everything she gets her hands on, she eats it. Her lips are black, her teeth are black, her tongue is black. Off to the bathroom we go. Claire is wailing, I am scrubbing; neither one of us getting results.

The doorbell rings. The mail lady would just like me to know that there is a naked little blond girl on a Princess bike pedaling her heart out down the street. She has contained her laughter until Claire flashes her a black, toothy grin. She is laughing so hard she is almost in tears as she offers to hold Claire while I throw some clothes on.

Five minutes later and order is almost fully restored. And by almost, I mean it is not. Cora is screeching and flailing her legs as I try to dress her and comb her

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