It’s time once again for the award shows to come pouring out of Hollywood like a tsunami of ooey-gooey-back-patting excess guaranteed to raise your blood sugar level just by watching the promos.
‘I’d like to thank all the little people….without whom….”
I’m one of the little people. Ok, not little as far as size goes, but you know, little as in not famous. I’m about as little as they come. No one gives out awards in my category. They don’t even HAVE a category for me, but if they did, I’m sure I could come up with a doozy of an acceptance speech.
I’d like to thank the academy for this honor—I know there are better mom’s out there, those who’ve given their kids a Wii, cell phones with unlimited texting and a bazillion gigs of music as well taking their kids on vacations to Hawaii, Disneyland, Disneyworld, the Bahamas and have sold their own blood to get them Hannah Montana concert tickets. They deserve this honor for always stocking their pantries with oodles of food from Costco, never making them clean up their rooms and letting them have anything they want for breakfast, including ice cream.
All I did was refrain from killing my teenage son for totaling the car while texting his girlfriend.
No, no, stop please. It was nothing, really. Oh sure, I could have easily taken him out, but I didn’t. Besides, there would have been witnesses and juries are prone to believe state troopers when they say things like “…she began to chase him around the damaged vehicle yelling that she’d had enough and wasn’t going to take it anymore and those stretch marks just didn’t seem worth it now. Then she got him in a headlock and began dragging him around while yelling something about labor and delivery, c-sections, blood and then she tried to strangle him your honor”
Thankfully, such testimony wasn’t necessary because as you can see by this lovely award, I did not throttle my teenage son that day. Or that night in his sleep, although I did pause by his closed door at one point around midnight, lay my head against the cool wood and quietly cry for a few minutes.
I’m sorry, that wasn’t what you came here to hear was it? I really would like to thank all the little people who helped me win this award. My mother for teaching me patience and the penal code, my father who made it clear that there are always extenuating circumstances and my husband for quietly reminding me that we didn’t have life insurance on him yet.
Of course that wouldn’t be the only award I’d win. I’d be up for Best Supporting Wife for Excellence in Laundry and Kitty Litter Scooping. Naturally I’d be getting the Lifetime Achievement Award for Embarrassing My Children Just By Being Alive. (I’ll spare you the acceptance speech on that one)
Of course there aren’t award shows for us little people. We don’t get to be patted on the back and congratulated by our peers for staying up all night with puking 9 year olds and managing not to toss our own cookies at the same time, (all without benefit of a nanny or other support staff) or for putting up with the extreme stress of attempting to cut through the lies of a teenager trying to tell you that of course they were at Jonathon’s house all night and didn’t we trust them? (the correct answer to that one would be no)
The award that I’d be most proud of though, second only to the one for not strangling my son, is for Sensitivity and Maintaining Composure Until After The Incident. The votes will be tallied and I’ll be the clear favorite to win this for not cracking one smile as my 11 year old earnestly explained to me that the reason she’s not popular in her sixth grade class is because she doesn’t have boobs yet.
“Everyone has them except me”
“Everyone? Wow, even the boys?”
“Ok, sorry. So all the girls but you, huh?”
“Yeah. Boobs make you popular mom”
Oh, if she only knew.
Wait. I think she does.
Darn it all. There goes my composure award.