I Made My Kids Wait in the Car Outside a Bar

…but I’ll get to that in a minute.

There was a news bit last night about how the paparazzi are all over celebrity babies. One photographer/stalker was saying how he can’t sell a picture of Sharon Stone anymore unless there’s a child in the frame. There’s apparently a particular park to which celebs flock to be “seen” sporting offspring. Ever since Gwyneth Paltrow named her daughter Apple and Jennifer Anniston didn’t get pregnant by Brad Pitt, kids have replaced big purses as the accessory of choice for Hollywood’s elite. Some might argue it started the day John Jr. played under his dad’s desk in the Oval Office, but I think Suri had a hand in it and certainly Octomom has jumped on the bandwagon.

So the headline of my last nine years should read: My Glamorous Motherhood. I should be on TMZ or something, as least, because I am hip. If I were a purse model, I’d be sporting a Prada. I’ve got the two most beautiful daughters you could imagine. My older daughter has thoughtful eyes of the clearest blue and thick wavy locks of spun gold. My younger daughter has that smooth olive complexion that looks like a slight tan all winter long and green eyes that sparkle like her smile. If motherhood is fashionable, my girls are to die for.

But (and you knew it was coming, right?) they also forget to flush before school sometimes and we come home to a houseful of crap-odor that could rival a pit-toilet. They miss the garbage can with their chewed gum and I get to fish it out of the dog’s mouth. Nothing comforts an ailing kid like having Mom fall asleep rubbing her back, right? Then Mom becomes a target for that middle of the night, surprise vomit.

Are you uncomfortable with body fluids? Not a problem. You can always enjoy the irony of a toddler meltdown in the family planning aisle of Target. Or that moment when you look down from writing your check to see that your three year old has pilfered a pack of Rollos, already has six of them in her mouth, and is drooling chocolate on a brand new white t-shirt. Oh, and you don’t have 80 cents cash to buy the Rollos, so you have to write another check.

A personal favorite I briefly mentioned in a previous week’s confession: when your baby gets too big for the car seat, but is still too little to stand on her own yet. You find yourself in the filthy bathroom of a gas station or Big Lots, getting your business done with your baby on your lap, trying to strategize for the TP phase of the operation.

There’s that sexy minivan, the allure of stretch marks, the sophistication of inadvertently referring to yourself in the third person to another adult; no one forgets the thrill of a milk let-down during an important presentation, and I haven’t even touched on the elegance of stain-removal…and then one night, ballet rehearsal goes way late and you get to the Bar & Grill after the 9pm deadline for minors and have to leave your kids in the car while you go in and let Daddy know you’re finally here to meet him for dinner.  Despite missing out on a meal, you're just relieved you weren’t reported, as you swing through a drive-thru for the culinary delights of breaded whitefish and hushpuppies.

Bring in the paparazzi, because I ended the night feeling like a cover shot for Cosmo, for sure.

"Blessed is the mother who gave you birth and nursed you.” Luke 11:27

NOTE: If you put this verse in context, you'll see that Jesus replied, "Blessed rather are those who hear the word of God and obey it."  Of course, He's right, but I totally get it why the woman called out a blessing on His mom to start with.  She didn't know Jesus was divine, and anyone who has experienced plain old, fully-human kids knows that for every kid that turns out OK, there's a parent or two somewhere who deserves a little pat on the back from the Almighty.  So if you're one of those, may you be blessed in full measure for every glamorous moment you've dedicated to your delightful little accessories.