Back at home after depositing Ollie at his preschool, I kick my shoes off at the door and realize that I had been in such a rush that I forgot to put socks on, and collapse in a heap on the couch in a tragic morning ritual. I always try to calm and center myself by taking a long, slow deep, breath. The first breath doesn't work, so I'll try a second. I get pissed off by the third, and go to make another pot of coffee. Today, I am reflecting on my momentary glimpse into my possible life as a spy. Nice. Yesterday, I looked into the back seat and my children, who were at a heightened state of… what shall I call it? Spunkiness. That is a good word for it…. so I looked back, and they had been replaced by two chimps. Like, two chimps strapped into their child safety seats…slapping things, picking fleas off each other- but thank goodness I snapped out of it as soon as they started flinging poo. A week ago, we were all in a parade as I had been crowned Woman of the Year. Actually, the official title was Woman-Of-The-Year-Who-Is-A-So-So-Cook-And-Mediocre-Housekeeper-But-Whose-Kids-Always-Have-Clean-Underwear.

            I get bored– clearly. As much as I have tried to fight it, I have fallen into a dreadful rut with everything around me. My husband knows what days we will have chicken, and what nights we will have our weekly no-frills sex-  Thursday and Sunday, respectively. My children know that Wednesdays are "Find The Yucky Stuff In Your Room And Get It Out" day. And I literally know how every single second of every single day will go. When I lay in bed at night, I think forward to what the next day will entail, in hopes of being prepared, and by the time the next morning gets started, I am already bored of it. Even the drama of the Green Cup this morning was somewhat prophesied. Because of this, I find myself running frequently on auto-pilot, and began my trips to Fantasy-ville after I almost fell asleep one morning driving the kids to school.

            Call me crazy, but anything that keeps the urge to turn all my beverages Irish at bay is a win/win.

            I used to be rather spontaneous, and dare I say it... Fun. Back in college, when I was known as Ellie as opposed to Mommy, I went to parties and spoke with honest to goodness, living, breathing, human beings! That is how I met Derek actually. Ah, imagine the days when we didn't know everything about each other, including preferred nose blowing techniques. (Him? Three blows, in short succession. Yeah.)  Back then he was a very sexy, but very unaware of it, computer geek, and I was that girl that liked to go to parties and laugh at all of the drunken people… but get enough Corona's in me, and I would be dancing on the table. Okay, that was only once. And only for one song. And I threw up. Never got invited back to that house... The point is that I used to know how to have something that resembled fun, and those days seem very far away…at least the fun part does.

            Don't get me wrong, we have fun now and it is wonderful, but it is a very different kind of fun. Like, taking the kids to a water park, or seeing the dolphin show at the zoo. No drunken college night could ever out-fun the look on Ollie's face as he got splashed, head to toe wet, by a dolphin during a super flip. He was not as amused.

            I am not complaining necessarily. I do love my life, and I am lucky to have it. I know that. That is not to say that it wouldn't be nice to have a drop of random unpredictability thrown in every once in a while. Something innocent to spice things up.

            Maybe we should get that penguin Abigail has been begging for. I bet that would be interesting.

            Clearly, I am delirious from lack of coffee.

            I pick myself up, and search for filters. I have three hours before I have to head out and pick Oliver up from school. Today, I am granted a bit of a break as Abby will be brought home at precisely 5:15 by Rebecca Monroe, who carts Abby and her daughter Bridgett from Kindergarten to dance class, and then home. She and I trade weeks. A bit of a welcome break every other Thursday. Thanks to this break, I only have to make one trip out this afternoon, instead of the usual quest that involves getting Oliver and either returning home, or running errands until it is time to go back and pick up Abby at 2:45. In these three hours, I must try and squeeze in all the things that I can't, or would rather not, do with a three and a half year old nipping at my ankles. These things include, but are certainly not limited to: showering, paper work, gynecological appointments, and ritualistic animal sacrifice. I'd do that last bit with the kiddies, but Ollie has a hard time handling the spears. Blood makes them slippery.

            Coffee started, I head upstairs to take my shower, the one relaxing and fantastically blissful part of my day. I started taking them after dropping the kids off, as bathing is considerably more enjoyable when you don't have one child trying to pull the curtain back to ask you where their other shoe is, or have the other create that frightening silence that makes every mother's blood run cold, since a silent child is a child up to no damn good. Despite my best efforts to throw a towel around me, and keep the shampoo from permanently blinding me, I never get there in time, and after the last episode that involved nail polish, tampons, and our brand new flat screen and DVD player, I have decided that a stinky mom is at the very least a watchful mom.

            Hey, if they step out of line, I can always threaten them with a time out to be spent in the luxurious confines of my un-showered armpit.

            The hot water is divine. The body wash is, um, sudsy. I take a well-earned moment, and lean my head against the contrastingly cool wall of the shower, let the hot water run down my neck and back, and try that deep breath thing again. I am powerless against the engulfing steam, and succumb to the mellowness of the moment.

            Instantly, I snap out of it and realize that I have an actual day to get to, and a schedule that begs to be followed, but never is kept.

            Out of the shower, I fly about my bathroom in a fan dance of lotions, potions, makeup brushes, and flat irons, and emerge shiny-haired and perfectly painted into the bedroom amid a cloud of steam, looking as though I have walked off the set of a fabulous shampoo commercial.

            Of course that is not true. I hop out of the shower, rub a towel over and run a brush through my hair before throwing it, still wet, into a pony tail. As for makeup, well, let's just say, most of the stuff I own is still in its original factory packaging. Most of them well beyond their date of usability.

            I head for our closet, trying to avoid the mirror, should my naked body be reflected, it might shatter. And I can't handle seven years of bad luck. I just can't.

            I stare at the clothes in my closet. There are some nice items hanging in there, begging to be worn, to be taken somewhere that they will be appreciated. Well ya know what? We all want that! So shut the hell up, you whiny bastards.

            As I stand there, inexplicably insulting my clothes, my hand grazes my stomach, my finger passing over my stretch mark. I look down, and study it lovingly. I am so proud of my one mark. It started when I was pregnant with Abby, and while carrying Oliver, it grew even more. I always thought it was so funny to have this one deep, very long mark, but not a single stretch mark anywhere else. Gently running my finger up and down my treasured scar, now nearly invisible having faded with time to a silvery pink, I feel my heart flutter as I remember how Derek would lay in bed with me during both pregnancies and talk to my belly, softly running his fingers over this very same mark that was literally growing bigger every day. He said he did that because he thought that since the skin was all stretched out that sound could travel through it easier and the babies could hear him better. Every time he did it they would give him a kick. After they were born, I was embarrassed by the ugly, red, squiggly deformity that was adorning my belly, until one day, Derek caught me frowning at it in a mirror. Hugging me from behind, he once again caressed the line with his finger, and declared that I should be proud of it, that he was, and that it was my battle scar. The sincerity in his voice was staggering in the moment, and I never again looked at my single stretch mark with anything but deep rooted pride. I fell so hard in love with him that day, all over again. It was a good day.

            Recharged by the memory, I pull a pair of jeans off the hanger. Usually, I abandon the notion of wearing an actual outfit, and head for sweats and other forms of stretchy pants, but not today. Today, I am going to wear jeans. And maybe a fun strappy top!

            Easy honey, one step at a time.

            I pull the jeans on, only slightly shocked that they actually fit, and head to the dresser and pull out one of many trusty worn in sweatshirts. My standard Mommy/Housewife uniform.

            Eh, at least I sauced it up today with jeans!

            Heading downstairs, I look at my daily list. I live off of lists; otherwise I would lose my mind. Derek has tried numerous times to convert me to the world of Palm Pilots, PDA's and other various forms of electronic organizational devices, much to my chagrin. I joke that I married him so I would never have to worry about anything electronic again. Call me old fashioned, but I'll stick to a pen and paper, thank you. Today's list is manageable- not overly crammed as is the case some days. There is chicken to be defrosted, a few bills to pay and mail, and laundry to be done. Of course the list grows as the day goes on with things that pop up, and I do have all the usual house cleaning things that after months of transferring the same damn things over to each daily list, I figured I could at least remember those. Not a lot of complicated things here- vacuum this, scrub that, dust here, mop there. Blah, blah, blah.

            I head to the freezer and pull out a hunk of frozen chicken breasts that later tonight will become ranch chicken fingers, a favorite among the kids. I am including my husband in that category, by the way. Before I can even set it on the counter, the phone rings.

            I furrow my brow as I walk ever so cautiously towards the receiver. I stare at that cordless menace like it is a rattle snake, coiled and ready to snap with each eardrum piercing ring. Derek only uses e-mail, or calls my cell phone, so it can't be him. No, it will be something bad, or something annoying. Another mother demanding that I contribute to another God forsaken bake sale, or fundraiser. A telemarketer perhaps, regaling me with tales of lower long distance rates, or free satellite dishes. Once, I was informed that I had won a trip to somewhere tropical… Hawaii I think. I was thrilled and the man talked me through it, had me squealing with excitement until he told me that the trip would be available to me only if I were to purchase a time share in the area for very affordable low monthly payments. I believe he should be shot. The bastard clearly toyed with my emotions.

            I reach the phone, and push the button that will surely link me with a kink in my day, and say hello.

            "Mrs. Eleanor Donahue?" The voice on the other end asks.

            "This is she." I reply warily.

             "This is Mrs.Trager. I am the director at Wentworth Academy, your son Oliver Donahue's preschool."  I love how she announces all these things like I haven't spoken to her a million times, or I don't remember the name of my son's school, or that perhaps the little lad's first and last names have escaped me.

            "I am calling to inform you that your son has been complaining of a stomachache for the last hour or so, and we feel that his complaints warrant being removed from class today."  She continues.

            God. Why does she talk like that? We live in a suburb outside of freaking Chicago, not in the Royal Kingdom of Illinois.

            "I'll be right there; will you tell him that I will be right there?" I sigh.

            "Certainly, Mrs. Donahue." She closes, "Thank you for your time."

            Why, oh why, did we insist on enrolling our child at Stick Up Their Ass Academy? Sure, it is the best school in this part of the state, but I mean really, some things aren't worth the cost of being able to speak three languages before Kindergarten.

            I turn off the coffee maker, looking sadly at the java that will be cold by the time I get back, give my frozen chicken a loving pat, and grab my keys and purse as I head back out the door.

            I survive the drive, explosions and super spy-free, and head into Ollie's school. Every time I am forced into this building, I feel out of place. I don't know the alphabet in French. I can't recite the Declaration of Independence in its entirety. I do not hold my pinky high when I drink my beverages. No my friends, I always get sauce on my shirt when I eat spaghetti. I stumble every time I wear high heels. And I have been known to pick my nose on occasion. I feel they can sense my inadequacy...

            I make my way through the halls, until I see the familiar Director's office sign, and push open the mahogany door to see my little Ollie, sitting pale faced in a chair next to Charlotte, the Director's Assistant. A very sweet woman in her fifties, with hair so blond it is almost white, and completely natural I might add. She always wears this red lipstick that is so bright it borders on neon. Normally, this would not be considered flattering on, well, anyone, but she pulls it off quite well. She is a very kind person, and a much needed contrast to the harsh, overly formal manner that is presented by Mrs. Trager.

            Thank goodness she isn't in here... I hate to admit it, but she scares me a little bit. Like, I am always afraid she will make me put gum on the end of my nose or something.

            I head over to Oliver who stands to greet me, and I kneel down in front of him.

            "How ya feelin' buddy?" I ask softly. He doesn't answer, but hangs his head and rubs his hand over his stomach. I look up to Charlotte for the down low.

            "He started complaining that his tummy was hurting a while ago, and he got more and more sluggish, so we brought him up here to rest, and he asked for his mommy, and that is when we called you." She informs. "He has no fever, but does feel rather clammy, the poor boy!"

            "Aw, honey, is your tummy bothering you?" I ask, rubbing his arm. "Do you feel like you're going to throw up?"

            "No." is his weak voiced response.

            Good. I can handle a lot of things, bloody noses, snot rockets, gaping flesh wounds, but vomit is really pushing my tolerance level.

            "Mommy?"

            "Yes Ollie-Bear?"

            "My tummy hurts."

            "I know baby." I say and embrace him in a comforting Mommy hug.

            What was that noise?  It was soft, so soft you couldn't figure out what it was based off sound alone.  The air around us suddenly becomes painfully unpleasant.  I mentally cross my fingers, hoping beyond all hope that perhaps it was a burp, caused by an upset stomach.  I slowly pull away from my son, and for some reason, I look up to Charlotte first, and see a look of sheer horror on her lightly tanned face.  That face speaks volumes.  Volumes of a book that no one, and I mean, no one, would ever want to read.

            I take a deep breath of the pungent air to try and toughen myself up.  I regret this immediately, and try to breathe through my mouth.

            "Mommy?"

            "Yes, Oliver?"  I squeak.

            "My tummy doesn't hurt as bad anymore."

            I look into his sweet eyes, and my gaze slowly travels down towards his tiny feet…his tiny feet that now have diarrhea running out of their sneakers… running out of his sneakers and forming a rapidly growing puddle of poo on the hardwood floors.

            I deeply long for vomit.