Even so, I’m eternally grateful and do not take the gift of childbirth lightly. On the other hand, the admittedly freakish miracle of being able to grow humans in ten months or less and years of painful visits from my proverbial Aunt Flo had doomed my relationship with my uterus to be rocky at best. So when my doctor told me that I needed a hysterectomy at the tender age of 41, she may as well have told me I’d be getting a full-time nanny. Of course at the time I hadn’t considered the prospect of major surgery, the possibility of having hormone replacement therapy at least nine years prior to menopause, or the fact that I’d have to go under general anesthesia to arrive at the other side of this whole mess. I was merely focused on the fact that all misadventures with my uterus were soon to be over and that I would be more than happy to part ways with the ol’ girl.

So I diligently finished up my lab tests and necessary blood work, scheduled my surgery, and what’s that? Oh yes, somehow figured out what to do with my kids for a whole month of their summer vacation. (As a side note, the extended members of our respective families are all veritable saints and in the event that we had a chance in hell of ever having anything of value in our will to bequeath, every one of them would be on the list of recipients.) But then I had to tell people. When my fellow hyster-sisters heard the news, they all said, “Oh, you’ll love it! You’ll feel like you’re 20 again!” And all I could think was, ”Shoot, I was really hoping that I’d feel more like I was 10 because that was before my excruciatingly painful monthly bill reared its ugly mug, but I’ll still take it.” What I hadn’t anticipated was getting the signature head tilt/half wince with an “Oooh, I’m so sorry,” from the people who had NOT had a hysterectomy- men included. It was only then that I realized the general populace associated my uterus with my womanhood. Of course, being the resident smart aleck I’d usually respond with a, “Oh don’t worry, it’s not as if I’ll never be able to wear a dress or shop again…” (insert awkward laughter). But then I’d think to myself, “Does it?” After that, every time I said “hysterectomy” I would reflexively whisper it like I was saying “sex” or “vagina.” I was a living paradox: ecstatic to be ridding my life of the horrible pain I’d been enduring for decades and at the same time feeling like I should be wearing a scarlet H.

Now it’s the day before my surgery and I’m freaking out about going under general anesthesia even though my doctor is a literal rock star in the field of laparoscopic hysterectomy, the kids are safely at my in-laws without a care in the world and a life without Eve’s Curse is one I’d like to lead. On this day, I feel compelled to put my legal affairs in order with a mad dash to the notary and have a teary eyed talk with my husband, insisting that he find love again and build a life for he and the kids without me if I didn’t make it. And while I’m certain I was sincere at the time, you can’t imagine my relief when I saw my surgeon walking toward me in the recovery room. There were only two things on my mind: 1. “I’m ALLLLIIIIVE!!!” and 2. Thank God some other broad won’t be raising my kids!”

Despite the fact that the OR nurse used me as a human voodoo doll during her utterly failed attempts to insert my IV during pre-op (I could only wonder why she hated me so much despite the fact that we’d only just met), and that I was forced to decline the handiwork of a handsome respiratory therapist who mistakenly had me queued up for a post-operative inhalation tube, I emerged from the experience generally without incident and best of all without pain. I even scored a bonus appendectomy as my free gift with purchase. More good news: I get to keep my ovaries which means I also get to keep my hormones, to which I’d suddenly become dreadfully attached when faced with the prospect of an involuntary break-up.

I’m not sure that I have more energy – i.e. feel like I’m 20–but maybe the gals who did feel like that afterward didn’t have kids under the age of seven. But what I know for sure? Laparoscopic hysterectomy must be the discovery of the century. My recovery was quick, I was in and out of the hospital in a day and a half and I have only four tiny scars exactly one centimeter in length to show for it. I have loads more storage where my tampons and those unwieldy pads with wings used to be and twelve weeks a year of my life back. I think I will use them to find a medically sound reason for a boob lift and tummy tuck. Stay tuned.

Traditional Dad aka Slacker: This is the dad who believes that child- rearing, and anything and everything having to do with the house is woman’s work. He figures that as long as he’s pulling down a paycheck he can do whatever he chooses with his free time. Essentially he’s the Sugar Daddy without the “Daddy” and more often than not, not enough “Sugar” either. Gift Idea: Zero. Zilch. Nada. Nothing. Clearly this guy celebrates Father’s Day every single day of his life.

Sports Dud: This is the dad who is only effective as long as “his game” is not on. And thanks to ESPN and the birth of cable, that’s pretty much all the time. In fact, your two-year-old could be dangling out of the second story window, but unless the Sox are down by two to the Yankees and it’s the bottom of the ninth, it’s not a crisis. Gift Idea: How about tickets to a local sporting event of his choice as long as he takes the kids. I think it’s high time he gets a dose of what it really means to sacrifice doing stuff you love so that your children can feel the love.

The “I do a lot” Dad: This is the guy who still thinks he babysits his own kids, and the sweet spot of the modern dad population. This dad thinks he does more than he actually does, and takes every opportunity to try and convince us of that by comparing himself to the closest Slacker Dad on the block in an attempt to prop up his own image. He will also incessantly refer back to that one bath that he gave the kids last week as if he’s just carried you out of a burning building. Gift Idea: The gift of relativity. A round-trip ticket for you and a friend so he can spend a good old-fashioned bonding weekend with his spawn and experience firsthand how much their mom really does.

Super Dad: Yes, girls, this category actually exists. This is the most highly evolved of the dad pool – and this dad does it all. Sometimes he’s a full-time, stay-at-home dad, and sometimes he’s busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest, but either way, he makes meals, taxis the kids all over town and never misses their games. While this dad’s numbers have increased over the years, he’s still quite rare and if found should be snatched up immediately if not already taken. Gift idea: Whatever the heck he wants.

The Executive Assistant Dad: This dad stands just a tick or two below Super Dad and definitely where my own husband falls – which is lucky for me – but to be fair, I did study his resume before bringing him on board. This is the dad who totally understands that he was a willing participant in the initial decision to bring the little rugrats into the world, and as such has equal responsibility in raising them. He’s ready, willing and able; he just requires a painstakingly specific road map. This is the guy who agrees to put the kids to bed, but unless you head up traffic control they won’t get there until midnight. He’s also the guy who, on his watch, won’t feed them unless their hunger pains can be heard above his own thoughts. Gift Idea: This guy deserves a big giant “A” for effort and really a day to do exactly as he pleases. That being said you may actually need to schedule it, otherwise he’ll likely spend the afternoon on the couch.

This list, of course, barely scratches the surface of what we moms have to deal with out there. There’s still the “I Gave At the Office” dad, the “Up in the Air” dad and “The What Have You Done for Me Lately” dad. And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the “I’m not even sure if he’s my kid” dad. On top of all that, your Baby Daddy is more likely a combo of some or all of the above. I know I’m having a little fun at their expense. I’m not saying they don’t deserve their own day. Without them, we moms would have a lot less to talk about, marriage counseling wouldn’t be a thriving industry, and Moms Night Out wouldn’t feel so darn cathartic. So a sincere thanks to all you Dads for bringing us the little people who guzzle up all that annoying extra time we used to have for self-improvement and a full nights sleep— your homemade ashtray is on its way.

Because it was then that she stopped yelling, and her face changed from a frustrated, angry woman on the edge to that of an inspired artist just before she stops staring at her canvas and creates a masterpiece. With an eerie calm and purposeful determination she walked to the sliding glass door leading to our backyard and slid it open. Then she danced through the minefield of toys with the agility of an Olympic athlete to get to the old-school television we owned at the time, complete with side consoled speakers and heavy green picture tube. And with what I can only conclude to be the super human, adrenaline surge of urban legends describing mothers lifting automobiles off of their children, my petite mother picked up our huge television, limped with it over to the door and handily threw it out onto our concrete patio while we watched it smash into a million pieces. At the time I remember thinking, “My mom’s a nutjob.”

Now that I’ve been married for nearly 14 years and have two boys under the age of seven, I finally understand. The poor woman was experiencing the only time in her life when the “temporary insanity” defense would hold up in court. I am that woman. Okay – so I haven’t totaled any household appliances, (although somehow I think hucking the flat panel would be a little less cathartic) but I’ve had my share of retreats to the car for a scream that would put most Freddy Krueger films to shame. I’ve slammed doors, I’ve yelled, and I’ve definitely cried. And then there are those days when the man I blame for my suffering walks through the door and finds me with my keys and purse already in hand and I have little more strength than it takes to squeeze his shoulder and whisper, “movie,” before I screech down the driveway.

The other day that same man and I caught the tail end of a sitcom called “In the Middle.” As the husband is putting his arm around his wife he says, “Honey, for such a small woman, you pack a lot of crazy.” I’ll just ignore the fact that my husband stopped laughing long after I did. Because when I’ve spent a day listening to my six and a half year old speak only in the third person, or hours putting tiny chewed-up Operation board game organs back into their respective slots, or being forced to walk into a grocery store with a Cameron-induced yogurt stain the size of a scaled down map of Europe, I think of that day when I was seven and it makes me feel a little less crazy. And while I know I’m doomed to listen to my children regaling stories of my temporary trips to the “left of center” at family reunions for the rest of my life, I’m finally ready to give my mother the gift she’s surely been waiting for since I had my firstborn.

So Mom, here it is: I get it. I’m sorry. I take back all the under-my-breath curses I uttered when I found that you’d stacked dirty cereal bowls on my dresser after repeatedly asking me to wash them. I’m no longer mad that you didn’t replace that poor TV of ours for three years. And I’m sorry I cut the hair and ripped off the head of the original Barbie you’d had since your childhood – you know, the one that would have had you and Dad living “la vida loca” somewhere tropical and fabulous right about now.

Thank you for teaching me that it’s okay to lose it once in awhile as long as you fill in the rest of the blanks with big love, unending cuddles and “president of the fan club” levels of cheerleading. Thank you for allowing me to survive my childhood. And most of all, thanks for taking it out on the major appliances.

Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, we’d like to thank you for flying Little American Germ Buckets and welcome you to the never ending flight of the flu season. You may as well sit back and relax because your life is about to come to an excruciating halt, and your to-do list as well as any progress you’ve made at starting an exercise routine will just have to wait. I assure you, there are no premium seats on this flight.

Please stow all your good pillows and expensive bedding in an overhead compartment; otherwise, they’re sure to be damaged by flying phlegm and related debris. We also ask that you turn off all electronic devices until such time as it is necessary to research any strange rashes and other unsavory side effects resulting from the various medications your little travelers will be taking. During this flight, we will not be handing out any sleeping supplies because, while I hate to point out the obvious, we all know that you won’t be needing them where we’re headed. If necessary, your seat cushions can be used as vomit protection devices or as something to beat your head against during the mind-numbing in-flight entertainment marathon starring the ever-chirpy Dora the Explorer and those perky Little Einsteins.

On this trip, you’ll have only two options for your in-flight beverage service: Pedialyte and a steady flow of caffeine in all its essential forms. Folding trays and seat backs should remain in their upright positions throughout the flight because let’s face it – it’s your best chance of getting the puke into the double-bagged garbage bins. We’d like to ask those who still have a fever to sit toward the rear of the cabin —not to be confused with the “angry” rear of your infant after a heavy dose of antibiotic. Those passengers will be given special face masks with a steady flow of oxygen to be used before, during and after the diaper changing portion of the flight. Speaking of masks, I think it’s safe to say that you can totally disregard putting on your own protective masks before any minors seated with you because we all know you’ll be taking this same flight on your own in about a week.
In the case of an emergency landing at a hospital or doctors office, passengers can purchase a special survival kit including several bottles of hand sanitizer to help you avoid the myriad of other unwanted maladies waiting for you in all medical lobbies and a brand new package of “Fake Barf” to be placed just beyond your seating area to discourage other sick patients from trying to play with your children.

I would like to remind you that you are not allowed to tamper with or disable lavatory smoke detectors, unless you can’t take the cabin pressure and are forced to return to the smoking habit you successfully gave up ten years ago for your health. Emergency exiting is not an option regardless of how unhinged you may feel and we do have US Marshalls on board to ensure no one escapes the aircraft mid-flight.

(3-5 maddening days later…)
Good news. We’re now beginning our descent and I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for choosing this flight, even if you didn’t have a choice… wait…I’m sorry, this just in— apparently we’re experiencing technical difficulties in the form of five full snow days ahead. I realize that your children are feeling better and have untold levels of cabin fever, your house is in shambles, your pantries are bare and the piles of laundry are starting to look like furniture, but it looks like you’ll have to ignore all that and figure out how you’re going to keep the lil’ buggers entertained for the foreseeable future. Our flight attendants will be coming through the cabin shortly to provide alcohol and extra large boxes of Kleenex. Thank you and we sincerely hope you don’t get “Lost” again.

Early in our relationship my husband sent me on a treasure hunt. At the time, it was my dearest hope that the last clue would lead to my still favorite watch. If, by some miracle, he orchestrated a repeat performance of that romantic gesture, I’d probably just pray the path eventually lead to an escape hatch for those days when I feel like sticking my head in the oven. Instead of chocolates, I’d love one measly hour to work out and not worry that my kids would be sick and out of school the next week because they’d picked up something nasty at the gym day care. In lieu of a surprise trip to somewhere fabulous, I’d really just like a surprise trip to the esthetician for a wax and then maybe the dentist for a teeth cleaning to make it feel really decadent.

I don’t remember the last time we spent a romantic Valentine’s Day having dinner for two, but I do know that if we spent the required effort and money necessary to make it happen, the punishment wouldn’t fit the crime. Mostly because it would mean that I would spend a month tracking down a sitter, a minimum of three weeks looking for those “in- between” hours necessary to clean every room in the house, even more days preparing kid-friendly dinners, stocking the house with snacks and ultimately being the one to decide on—and make—the reservations at a restaurant that doesn’t have a coloring crayon and coordinating activity sheet in sight. And that’s all before I’d somehow figure out how to sneak in a shower, whip my hair into some version of what it looked like the last time I left a salon, apply some war paint, pick out an outfit that required heels (add in extra time to relearn how to walk in heels) and go to the ATM to withdraw the $400 ransom it would take to pay for dinner and secure the release of our children. Once we’d arrived at said fantasy restaurant, I’d be so spent from the groundwork that I could promise my husband little more than a staring contest from across the table. (Right now he’s probably thinking, “Honey, why did we stop celebrating Valentine’s Day again?”)

I know, all you young lovers out there will find my Valentine’s Day revelations depressing. And in a way they are. Especially since I spent so many years convincing my husband that using the free greeting cards we get from the charities we support in place of making a trip to an actual store was not winning him any points. Never fear, I’m still a typical girl—all mushy inside and victim to even trivial romance—I’ve just stopped being a slave to Cupid’s annual cash cow.

I want to say that I miss it, but in actuality, it’s been pretty liberating. I remember a day when I thought my husband had the most gorgeous, lush head of hair. Now it’s hard for me to run my fingers through it without remembering those same locks covered in vomit the last time Cameron ate a hotdog that didn’t agree with him. And I’m not naïve enough to think there’s much out there can resuscitate the unspoiled fantasy of your young bride after you’ve witnessed that once hot girl and all her parts giving birth. These days, a burnt piece of meat on his plate and a few runs of the vacuum cleaner through the carpet when he gets home is about all the “sexy” he needs. And this year, honey, even though I no longer own lingerie, I will make absolutely sure my sweats are clean, I’ve queued the DVR and the mouth guard spends the night in its own dish. Happy Valentines Day to us!

I can only imagine having to sprint through the grocery store to avoid another mom finding out that I’d been at this for six and a half years and still hadn’t made it past entry level white. Because if she did, she’d inevitably have an inner dialogue with herself to the tune of the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld, “No play date for you!”

Oh sure, I’ve had my moments, and I think maybe even days when I thought I’d actually move up a level, but then I end up doing something that reminds me, I’m one Britney Spears second away from failing the test. It’s not that I don’t have aspirations in that area or fear the work. I’m just too busy trying to get my kids excited about smoothies for dinner, and digging their soccer uniforms out of the dirty clothes pile so I can spray it with Super Odor Eliminator and pop it in the dryer for 15 minutes before practice. Judge me if you will, but there will come a day when you’re desperate enough to consider it.

Ironically, I seem to know quite a few black belt moms. They’re easy to spot because they’re basically those parenting magazine ad models in Technicolor. Black belt moms don’t have two-year-olds performing “the Batman smells” version of Jingle Bells in the aisles of Walmart. And I’m also pretty sure their two-year-olds don’t accidentally knock heads with a fellow classmate at their Christian-based Mom’s Day Out program and tell him he’s going to “crush” him. (No doubt thanks to my husband) Okay so it came out a little closer to “cuhsh him,” but I think we were all clear.

These are the ladies who have baby books to my baby boxes and perfectly timed growth interval pictures to my “he looks about six months in that one.” Essentially, these are the mothers who can bring home the FDA-approved, food pyramid groceries and sauté them up in their stainless steel, non-teflon pan. God help me if they reapply their lip-gloss before their husbands get home. Who knows? Maybe they cry into their pillows at night like the rest of us, but at least they put on a better show.

I wonder what the level-to-level progress tests would look like. Maybe somewhere between yellow and orange you’d have to master chocolate chip cookies and homemade Rice Krispy treats without looking at the recipe. Or to get from brown to red, you’d have to lead an age-appropriate craft project, cook a well-balanced meal and get in your daily workout all at the same time. I shudder to think what it would take to make it all the way up to black. If I had to guess, I’d bet it’s being able to get those pop-up play tents back into the deceiving little round discs they come in so you don’t have to shove them behind your couch and eliminate the whole reason you felt compelled to buy them in the first place.

Regardless, if we had to live in a society that forced us to wear our Mom “chops” on our sleeves, I’d probably be doomed to wear my entry-level motherhood belt for the rest of this gig, but at least everything goes with white. Come to think of it, so does black. Whatever.

We’re all familiar with the expression “Motherhood is a blessing and a curse.” Well, I think it’s clear onto which side The Mommy Belly falls in that comparison. And no one is safe. I have a very tall, naturally slender friend who was lifting her shirt and complaining about her Mommy Belly at a recent playdate, which by all standards was nothing to write home about, but a Mommy Belly nevertheless. (Husbands, if you’re wondering what exciting things happen at these playdates, there’s a little peek for ya.)

I’m not sure if it’s because our mothers were simply too genteel to mention this unmentionable, or because women are waiting until they’re older to have kids these days, but the girth of The Mommy Belly buzz appears to have expanded substantially in recent years, and somewhere along the line even become a proper noun. It’s the layered look that’s never in fashion and the reason Spanx has taken off like a rocket.

It happens to be on the top of my holiday to-do list because I’ve spent the better part of the year and countless numbers of sit-ups, crunches and endless miles desperately trying to slough it off. But no matter what I do, there it is with a maniacal snicker, wondering why I’m working so hard. Nobody told me that after Jack and Cameron had abandoned their temporary home, I’d be left with a permanent vacancy. I imagine at this point, I should just put a “for rent” sign up and see if I get any takers. All I know is that I can’t bear to read one more ridiculous article about a celebrity who claims they’ve gotten back into their pre-pregnancy, sexy two-piece bathing suit by logging in a nauseating amount of hours of Pilates. I wish they’d just cut to the chase and give us the name of their doctor.

I can’t believe it’s December already, although I don’t know why I’m surprised; the Christmas stuff has been out since Easter. ‘Tis the season for holiday parties and clingy dresses that need to navigate my postpartum relief map. My ultimate wish is that it’s the very last year I spend hours in multiple dressing rooms trying to find the perfect and keenly strategic black dress. Because after a year-long tug-of-war with the treadmill and various and sundry other quibbles with core based exercises, I’m convinced that the only way to cut The Mommy Belly out of my life is to literally “cut” it out of my life.

Santa, are you listening? All mommy wants for Christmas is a tummy tuck and a belly button that doesn’t look like the tied end of a balloon a week after the party’s over.

Tate Emerson is a freelance writer and wholly imperfect mother of two living in NWA. Read more about her daily foibles even if it’s just to feel better about your own flavor of motherhood at momoftheyear.com

This Thanksgiving marks the near end of my fortieth year, and in my necessary analysis of the too many years gone by and the untold number of mistakes I’ve made, it’s also occurred to me that I’m thankful for a whole array of things that aren’t appropriate for the traditional Thanksgiving table. And even though my Thanksgiving table looks less like Martha’s and more like Snoopy’s with bowls of popcorn and stacks of buttered toast, traditions still apply. Eventually, everyone will start dishing out thank-you lists suitable for collective consumption, but this year, I think I’ll just silently noodle over a list of another variety:
I’m thankful…

1. …that by some miracle I avoided getting slapped with a $1000 fine during the two months prior to me discovering that Cameron had been tossing random toys, food and necessities out the car window during our long commute to school. Things were always missing, but it didn’t strike me as odd until we arrived at his Mom’s Day Out program and he was suddenly missing his socks. That day the said suspect folded like a cheap suit and made a full confession. The little rascal was even smiling until he realized that his window privileges had been permanently revoked.

2. …that my husband appears to have retained the very same rose-colored glasses he had on when we met fifteen years ago.

3. …that video telephones never caught on.

4. …for baseball caps, dark glasses and elastic waistbands.
5. …for the most reliable nanny I’ve ever had: she’s available on a dime, highly entertaining and requires nothing in return. I like to call her: “Tel-eh-Veez-e-own.” Giving her an exotic name makes me feel better.

6. …for drive-thru-windows.

7. …that I happened to be running an errand when my husband discovered Cameron’s latest, and (later renowned) legendary diaper blowout. But mostly that I couldn’t be recruited for the Haz-Mat clean-up crew.

8. …for the fact that child abandonment laws are stringent enough to motivate me to stick around during those moments when I feel completely insane, just long enough to stay for those other moments I can’t imagine life without my boys.

9. …that some very smart people published an official report stating that it’s healthy for me to have at least one glass of red of wine a day.

10. …that my husband and children can’t read the inner dialogue bubble above my head.

11. …for plastic surgery. Not that I can afford it or have dallied there, but somehow it makes me feel better knowing that my “girls” have something to aspire to — in all honesty nobody’s going to feel better unless they can climb back onto the top shelf where they belong.

And there are a million more – not least of which is the fact that I can’t get fired from this crazy job called motherhood regardless of whether or not I’m meeting expectations, getting through my to-do list or cooking my own meals. The downside, of course, is that the salary won’t buy Mama a new pair of shoes. But the bonus is that I’ll likely have enough fodder to write stories for the rest of my life. I guess I’ll just have to feast on that.

Tate Emerson is a freelance writer and wholly imperfect mother of two living in NWA. Read more about her daily foibles even if it’s just to feel better about your own flavor of motherhood at momoftheyear.com

Growing up, I discovered early that there was a “sweet spot” in the art of costume selection. Throughout the Halloweens of my childhood, I honed my skills at choosing a costume that was neither too clever nor too difficult to pull off. My outfit always fell somewhere north of stupid and a good ways south of best costume. I was never going to be MVP, but at least I could suit up with the rest of the cool kids on the team and still end up smiling with a pillowcase full of candy.

I have no idea why, but as I approached my first Halloween as a mom, I had this sudden urge to win prizes and take names. For me, Halloween reached the same anxiety provoking heights as choosing the perfect baby announcement. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t take up papier-maché, but I did scour the Internet and pore over every catalog available to become utterly neurotic about finding the perfect costume. Year one, Jack was a crawling court jester and year two, he was an “early years” Elvis. Year three, he insisted on being a fireman instead of the darling pirate I’d chosen, so I left no stone unturned and found the best darn fireman costume I’d ever seen. When he insisted on being a fireman again the following year, I was dejected.

I should have been happy about the money I was about to save alone, but instead, I found myself lamenting to a friend. She immediately scoffed at my predicament and assured me that since Cameron had been born by this time, I could easily breathe new life into that old fireman costume by making Cameron a Dalmatian. I was stunned. Until that very moment I had never thought of my children as a “set,” but there was my friend, talking a mile a minute about how she had been able to up the Halloween costume ante, even when her oldest daughter had insisted on being a princess three years in a row. The second year, her son had arrived, so he turned into a frog. By the third, he’d graduated to prince. Impressive, no?

I’m not sure if the Halloween bigwigs overheard our conversation that fateful day, but ever since, the industry has seemed to embrace the concept. Peruse any catalog worth its salt and not only will you find related costumes for siblings of all ages, but you’ll even find new ways to humiliate the dog. If your son has chosen to be Harry Potter, you can accessorize him with a sibling dressed as Hedwig, his trusty owl companion. If there’s a budding magician in your family, a little sister can easily be tormented as his requisite rabbit-in-a-hat. If your daughter wants to be Lil’ Bo Peep, find that girl some sheep. And what’s a pirate without a parrot? Your children will kill you later, but while you still have the reins, I say go ahead and have a little fun.

Last year, when Jack begged to be Jango Fett from Star Wars, Cameron was a shoo-in as his mini-Yoda. In the sequel, Jack’s still obsessed with Star Wars, but has moved on to Commander Cody. Since Cameron already rocked his Yoda outfit last year, I’ve had my eye on the toddler Princess Leia costume, complete with headpiece and signature side buns. My husband is resistant, of course, but when I talk of the future fun and bribery material we’ll have on our son, he admits it sounds tempting.

Unfortunately, our six-year-old has embraced the themed “set” concept to such a degree that he’d like my husband and I to dress up as Star Wars characters too. My husband wants to be George Lucas, the creator of the multi-billion dollar franchise. He figures it’s the least taxing costume to put together — slap on a silver wig, quirky mustache and beard, and carry around a wad of cash. I guess that leaves me as the ex-wife. While I may be taking some creative liberties here, I think I’ll play her as someone who has let herself go but doesn’t care since she still gets alimony.

If you want to embrace the themed costume approach, do it while the kids are young and naïve because the strategy has an inevitably short life span. In the meantime, I’ll be relieved when Halloween 2009 comes to a close. We can pack away the costumes, and Jack can spend the rest of the year as a walking tribute to the favorite pair of jeans I’ll likely never fit into again and Cameron, the incisional hernia from our C-section together—talk about a couple of characters.

Several of my well-intentioned friends have been calling, e-mailing and texting me with words of encouragement and asking how long I sat in the car and cried after first drop-off. But when I express emotions to the contrary, I get the distinct impression that they’re just humoring me until the dam breaks. I admit, all the preemptive support gave me guilty pause for not finding myself in the grip of despair, but then I got right back on track when I reminded myself that I was never in the running for any “Mother of the Year” awards anyway, so I might as well stick to what I know. He’s ready, I’m ready, I love his new school, so what’s not to like?

For instance, I LOVE car line. In fact, since we’re talking Kindergarten, I’ll even put it into relative terms for you: I’m so in love with car line, I just might marry it. Car line, for those of you who either haven’t reached the Kindergarten milestone or are of the age when car line didn’t actually exist, is the legal equivalent of slowing down to 10 mph and having your child tuck and roll to the curb. This means, of course, that I get to stay dry and happily seated in the car while Cameron, my spirited two-year-old is securely trapped…oh, did I say trapped? I meant strapped in the backseat, and in less than twenty minutes Jack’s happily off to his class, and we’re off to the races.

And that’s just morning car line. Afternoon car line is even better. Sure, I have to wait a little longer, and I’m still working out the kinks, but this version of car line has additional perks. For instance, I don’t ever need to talk to anyone unless I feel so inclined. I just hold up my little sign so the volunteer with the microphone can bark out Jack’s name to a crowd of Elementary hopefuls, and he magically appears. I’ll go ahead and confess here that I’m so giddy about car line, Jack’s name sign has been laminated since his first day.

The school’s car line policy states that drivers are NOT to get out of their cars. Are they bucking for a proper proposal? They already had me at “Hello.” Next thing they’re going to tell me is that we’ll be getting free chair massages for every ten minutes we wait. I admit, we’re still in the honeymoon phase, but every day “car line” seems to find new ways to woo me. Yesterday, I burned through most of Jack’s thank you notes from his August birthday party. The day before that, a particularly lively rendition of Stevie Wonder’s “Higher Ground,” had me seriously brushing up on my car dancing skills. My apologies to the drivers on either side of me by the way (you know who you are), but after the beat took over, I was an unwitting slave to the music and all humility just flew out the window. Literally. Next thing you know, I’ll be finding time to knit little socks for the Arkansas boy’s choir.

Unfortunately, car line doesn’t mean that I escape Cameron’s intermittent tantrums in the backseat despite the fact that I come armed with a boxful of toys and snacks to occupy his little mouth and hands, but it does mean that he’s not sprinting up and down school hallways and redecorating classrooms. And that I’m not attempting to have a chat with another Mom, but instead finding myself orbiting the same sentence fragment while keeping Cameron from deconstructing student art projects and propagating his special brand of graffiti on the walls. Even so, the kid’s got a gifted set of lungs and a flair for the dramatics I fear will someday be exercised seasonally as the type of avid football fan who feels compelled to paint his face and upper body in a two-tone fashion in support of his team, but for now, I’ve got a radio and volume control. Long live rock-and-roll…and car line too.