Green cup. The green cup. Where the hell has the green cup gone? How is it scientifically possible that this cup has disappeared from this Earthly realm overnight, with not so much as a fingerprint or a ransom note left in its now-empty assigned seat in the cabinet? This cup is so beloved by my son that he simply refuses to partake in breakfast with the rest of us until it is found, filled with orange juice, and then placed firmly in his increasingly impatient grasp. Even more perplexing is how has this cup had become the lynch pin in my morning, deciding whether or not I am to complete breakfast for these two children and get them packed contentedly into the family ride with minimal fuss and/or muss- or will it all come crashing down in an epic display of screaming children, declarations of ruined lives, and Mommy Guilt?

            "Mommeeeeeeee?" a tiny masculine voice pierces the kitchen. "Where is my gween cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup?!"

            His tolerance for a green cup-free morning is wearing dangerously thin, and I sense that I have mere moments before Morning Meltdown officially begins. Ohmygoodgoshdarnandhell. Think, woman, THINK! I washed it last night. It was in the dishwasher, which I unloaded this morning, but recall no cup of the aforementioned hue. Did the dishwasher eat it? This might sound crazy, but rest assured that my dryer has done this repeatedly to our family's socks.

            Focus.

            Wait. The husband was up and about this morning... perhaps he grabbed the cup! Yes! This makes more sense than the hungry appliance. I check the sink- no cup. I scan the counters with laser precision- no cup. Crap. Oliver is starting to bounce, ever so slightly. Soon will come the cry, the ear piercing cry, followed immediately by the jumping up and down. Abby looks over from her scrambled eggs. She can sense the panic in my eyes. Far too observant for a five year old if you ask me. If I don't work fast, the panic will spread- mob mentality and all. I give her a calming smile, and patented Mommy-head-tilt, that clearly signals that I of course have this all under control. Now eat your eggs, Sweetheart.

            Darn it. What has Derek done with his son's cherished cup? What kind of a father would torture his child so? Or his wife for that matter, the evil bastard.

            While my brain is doing an internal Google-type search for all the places this cursed chalice could be hiding, I am distracted by a familiar soft brushing against my ankle.

           "Hi, Murph." I sigh. Sweet kitty. My pal. So loyal, so loving, so content to drink from anything, no color coordination needed.

            That's it! Murphy! You fluffy tailed genius!

            I scurry over to the laundry room door, fling it open much too desperately, snatch the bag of cat food off the shelf and thrust my hand inside, digging around in a fever pitch like a child on a quest for the trinket in the cereal box. My hand catches something amongst the salmon-y, crunchy bits. With baited breath, I remove my hand...

            Success!!!

            My prince of a husband must have grabbed the cup and used it to scoop out cat food before he went to work! Just a gem of a man, and I would never think otherwise.

            With cup in hand, I glide from the laundry room with my chest puffed up and head held high, and know that I am the Mommy. The protector of all things. I have not let my child down. I have saved his day. He will now enjoy vitamin enriched, pulpy goodness from the Preschoolers Holy Grail. I am a hero. I look upon the child whose day I have rescued, whose innocence I have preserved with the quick thinking and natural skill that comes with the territory. I await the bestowal of accolades.

          "Ewwww! Mommy!! It has yucky cat food cwumblies on it!"

            Um. Where are the accolades? The "You're the best Mommy, ever!" comments? The, uh, thank you's?

            "Mommy?"

            "Yes, Ollie?"

            "I want the wed cup, pwease."

            Well. Crap.

*    *     *

      I love my life. I love my life.

      "Mmmooooooooooooooooom! Ollie is picking his nose!!"

      I love my children. I love my children.

      "Mmmooooooooooooooooom!! He is trying to wipe it on me!"

      I love, um, something.

      "MMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!! He got his boogers on my coat!! MOMMMMY!!! BOOGERS!!! EWWWWWW!"

      I love....

      Eh. Screw it.

      "Oliver Donahue! You stop wiping boogies on your sister! That is yucky! Boogies go on Kleenex, not on sisters! You stop wiping boogies on your sister RIGHT NOOOOW!!!"

      It is a proud moment in every woman's life when she has to give a lecture on the proper protocol of booger removal and disposal. I certainly pity those who are child-less. I mean, what do they talk about in their cars every day? Politics? World events? Pssssh! Boring. You haven't lived until you start your morning with boogers.

      I wonder if eight in the morning is too early to start drinking?

      We are loaded in the car, and heading off to school, Abigail to kindergarten and Ollie to preschool. An epic adventure that I dare to run, five days a week, without fail. I recall, ever so vaguely, the days in which I would decide to leave the house, and then do just that. Leave the house. Pausing only briefly to make sure I had on my person some form of money and a driver's license. Now, if the house is to be left, there is a stampede of tiny person's running about in a well choreographed flourish that serves as an amazing distraction from the hundred little things that simply must be packed into my Mommy Carry-All, for should we leave the house without them, doom would certainly befall us all. There are juice boxes to be collected, snacks to be placed in baggies, equally so to avoid the "Her baggie has more crackers than my baggie!" conversation. Baby wipes that while I do not technically have a baby in my possession, I have learned that once children are in the picture, a parent is never to be without a steady supply of those handy little moist towelettes. Bandages for the inevitable boo-boo's that come at the oddest and most unlikely times. I swear, if I took these two to a pillow factory, they would come out with a cut finger and a scraped knee. There must be hand sanitizer. There must be sunscreen. There must be a cell phone that is loaded with every emergency number, ever. There must be a selection of toys should the twelve blocks to the school prove to be simply too long a trek and further distraction is needed. There must be variety of CD's in case Radio Disney insists on playing an unacceptable song during the commute. And most importantly, there must be the trusty roll of duct tape, just in case the little buggers drive me insane and I need a moment of reprieve.

            Wait. What?

            We venture forth. I could drive this in my sleep. Some mornings, I fear I may have to. I glide down the road, whizzing through town, passing every familiar sight for the seven hundredth time, wondering why it is taking so long for the auto makers to create a car with auto-pilot.  Surely this invention would be more useful than the feature that lights up annoyingly to inform me that my rear hatch is ajar.  It would be less irritating if it would say that the hatch was merely open, but the uppityness of the "ajar" gets to me.  Why can't it tell me something more helpful, such as there is a cop with a radar gun hiding behind that bush?

            As I arrive at Abby's school and take my position in the drop off line, Abby and Oliver begin throwing Cheerio's from their baggies at each other and giggling about the trajectories at which the O's bounce off of the others head.  I want to care enough to stop them, but the fact that they are relatively silent and content overrules my desire to have a cereal free car interior. 

            I loathe the drop off line.  An enormous line of vehicles, filled with antsy children and exhausted parents, in which we all sit motionless waiting to release our kids into the confines of their school.  We are herded like cattle by Leonard, the traffic guard here who took the job as an attempt to stay active after his official retirement from his career in accounting.  When he started out here, he had the face of a friendly old man, pleased to be surrounded by our adorable little angels in the mornings.  After being honked at by one too many mommies in a mad rush, Leonard now looks to be plotting our demises while grumbling under his breath as make our way through.  Eventually, we will move inch by tiny inch, until we are in the designated drop off location where the doors fly open and the tots race out.  Then we are given the waving arm from Leonard to carry on, which with his surly demeanor comes off more like "Get the hell out of the way now before I throw a traffic cone at you."

            It is not at all frustrating that the wait in the drop off line takes longer than the actual drive to the school, and I find it hard not to nod off while we wait.  Once I am guided into the proper spot in front of the school walkway, I have to snap to it to, run around the car and get Abs out of her child seat, before running back to the driver’s side and taking off, lest I take too much time and incur the wrath of Leonard, or worse, one of the other perpetually annoyed parents behind me who have better things to do than wait for my slow butt.

            Just as I am hoisting Abby onto the pavement and securing her backpack to her tiny shoulders, I hear a startled gasp of a mother behind me, followed by an unpleasant thud.  I turn to find the source of the commotion and see that Leonard, adorned in his blindingly bright orange safety vest, is lying motionless on the ground.

            My first thought is that perhaps his incessant impatience for the lot of us had peeved off a parent enough to slug him, but even a mommy on a rampage wouldn't punch a little old man.  Would they?

            "What happened?" the gasping mother shrieks beside me.

            "He just grabbed his chest," a woman in front of me hollers, trying to divert her son’s attention from an overly still Leonard on the sidewalk.  "Then he fell over!"

            I watch as an air of madness ensues.  Children are crying, parents are panicking, and yet not one person thinks to tend to the situation of the man at the root of it all. 

            It has been my experience that in crisis situations, there are those that become frantic messes, and the select few that manage to pull it all together long enough to help.  I would normally consider myself one who becomes a blubbering mess, or at the very least, a comatose observer, incapable of tearing my eyes away long enough to form any sort of rational thought, but I look around and see that the roles of the hysterical bystanders have all been filled.

            Somehow convincing my feet to move, I order Abby to wait by the car with her brother and make my way through the crowd to Leonard, who remains immobile.

            "Okay," I inhale sharply as I prepare to handle the increasingly frightening scenario.  "You, call 911," I say and point to a wide eyed woman across from me. 

            As she wordlessly pulls out her cell phone to do as she was told, I turn my attention to Leonard.  It has been years since I have taken any sort of CPR training, and I rack my brain to remember the basics. 

            I roll him from his side and onto his back, reaching up to try and find a pulse with my fingers pressed under his neck.

            Seeing him lie here, so still and lifeless, the memories of his crotchety behavior vanish.  The muscles on his face no longer hold his features into a permanent scowl, but have relaxed into the face of that kind old man I met here so many months ago.  Someone who intended to do nice things, but like so many of the rest of us, lost that focus along the way.  Leonard is a good man, and I refuse to let him go out like this, here on the dirty pavement, clad in a neon orange vest.

            Unable to feel a pulse from Leonard, I can feel the adrenaline rushing through my own veins, and I know that I need to act now.  Remembering what I can, I carefully lean up to tilt his head backwards slightly, hoping to open his airway as much as possible.  I use the pads of my fingers to try and locate the correct place on his chest, before I carefully position the heel of my right hand onto his sternum, and placing my left hand on top, I begin compressions.

            Everyone is silent around me, save for the sounds of those who are crying, both child and adult alike, but I can't pay attention to that right now.  No, I must count, I must focus.

            ...27, 28, 29, 30!

            Alright, thirty pushes into his chest, now to breathe. 

            I try to picture the various diagrams I have seen in the past as to the proper way to do this.  If I don't keep his head tilted properly, the air won't reach his lungs.  Use one hand to pinch his nose, and the other to hold his chin in position.

            I certainly never pictured spending my morning like this with Leonard.  Before when I had seen people on television giving CPR, I had always wondered with a laugh if things like bad breath, or lack of kissing desirability would be a deterrent when attempting to save another person’s life.  Perhaps a person who was unfortunate looking, or one that had consumed one too many onions at lunch would go untreated?  Seeing as how Lenny here isn't my idea of a hot make-out partner, and that his breath has a Malox-y essence to it isn't stopping me, I am thinking that looks and hygiene amount to very little in these instances.

            I quickly blow three breaths into his mouth, pleased to see his chest rising with each burst.

            I can hear the sirens making their way towards the school, and I silently ask Leonard to work with me just for a few more moments.  I feel my lucidity slipping away when I wonder if they will be able to make it up to us without the traffic guard to assist them?

            "Come on, Leonard," I whisper as I return to my compressions. 

            I don't know if I am helping at all, for all I know I am making things worse, but I have to at least try.  I keep thumping away, determined to keep his heart beating until the paramedics arrive.  How long has it been since he dropped?  Two minutes?  Three hours?  Either response seems perfectly tangible. 

            I finish the second set of compressions, and carefully begin breathing into him again.  I am about to blast the third shot of oxygen, when I feel air whoosh by my face as Leonard sucks in a short, but deep breath.

            "Leonard?" I practically wail.

            I see the ambulance pulling in front of the line of cars, and the medics begin running our way.  As they do, Leonard begins to cough.

            "Leonard!" I yell, and feel I am about to have a heart attack of my very own.

            Myself and everyone around me have been collectively holding our breath, but as his chest continues to rise and fall on its own, and his eyelids begin to flutter open, the crowd erupts with cheers.

            The first EMT makes his way to where we are on the sidewalk and begins asking questions that I am unable to answer.  I sit, completely dumbfounded as I watch them poke and prod the man I had just been toiling with, who is now looking around and coughing out words and questions of his own.

            Someone grabs me by the arm and starts pulling me up off the ground.  Once on my feet, hands come out of nowhere, patting me on the back, shaking my hands, waving wildly in front of me as I try to make sense out of what has just occurred.

            The screams of happiness and applause continues as I am led, stupefied, back to where Abby stands by Oliver, still strapped into his safety seat, and they are both clapping and beaming at their mother.

            "Mommy!" she trills in her most excited voice, "You are a hero, mommy!"

            People have begun to honk the horns of their cars in elation as Leonard manages to sit up on his own as they wheel a stretcher over to him.  I cannot form a functional sentence, even a complete word, as the reality of the last five minutes sinks in.

            "Mommy?" Abby speaks, but is drowned out by the horns behind us.

            I have saved a man’s life, and my child thinks I am a hero.  The enthusiastic cries from the people around me keep my brain from being able to process everything as it is happening, and my attention is pulled towards Leonard as he lies on the stretcher now. 

            With as big a smile as he can muster, the little old man gives me a thumbs up.

            "Mommy?"

            The sound of the honking cars and cheering bystanders grows louder still and I --

            "Mommy!"

            "What Abby?" I answer finally.

            "You are blocking Randy's mommy," Abby informs me.

            I look behind me and sure enough, there sits Randy's mother, Dina, sitting in her Buick, and waving her fists at me wildly.

            The horns continue to blare, and I turn back to face Leonard.

            Who is now standing in front of my car angrily waving his flag, and yelling in my direction.

            Sitting in my car, I come out of my haze and realize that it is now my turn to unload Abby, and I am holding up the line.  I prepare to bolt from the car to unstrap her from her seat, but she interrupts me.

            "S'okay mommy," she mutters.  "I am out, but will you unlock the door?"  Even my child is annoyed with me.  "Randy's mommy looks really mad at you."

            "Sorry, honey!" I try to smile as she leaps out of the car.  "I love you, have a good day at school!" I call after her, but the door shuts before I can finish.    

            I am mortified as I put the car back into drive and try to make my way around the perfectly healthy Leonard, whose face is still in its grumpy position.  Grumpier now, it seems.  "Last time I save your life, jerk," I grumble.

            I shake my hair, trying to rid myself of the remnants of my daydream.  No amazing life saving moments for me.  No adoration from my parenting peers.  Not even close.

            Back on the main road now, I turn towards Oliver's preschool, and sigh as I settle back into my robotic morning routine.