I am now a card carrying member of the That Mom club.
You know, the club that all single people and sans-kids folks roll their eyes at and secretly bitch about at their fun no-parents-allowed parties.
I realized it the other day when I was on the phone with a former student. As I was trying to help her with her new private practice, my daughter decided to have a caniption.
“Here’s what I sugwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwaaaaaaaagest. Find a goodbbbbbbbbabbyyyyy accountant and wwwwwwwwwwwahhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Q, one second mommy’s on the phone *said while poorly holding hand over the mouthpiece*”
“Is everything okay?” [read: Um, that’s really loud. Is she dying?]
“I’m so sorry. She’s just really wants to watch her baby. So anyway, where was I? Oh, accountant, right. Talk to someonewhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa… Q, please, just give me one minute here… *said with no hand over the mouthpiece*”
“It’s okay if you have to go” [read: Please, let me go….]
And then it hit me. I am the that mom. The one I hate talking to on the phone because it’s clear that I don’t have her full attention for any part of our conversation. I even admitted it.
“Oh my god. I’m so the mom I hate talking to on the phone. I’m so sorry. I have to go now.”
Even worse was when I had to call her back about 15 minutes later and cancel our lunch meeting because my babysitter didn’t show up. All the times I rolled my eyes when my friends-with-kids were late or had to cancel because of their babysitter just came back to haunt me.
“Um, hi Kara. I’m really sorry about this, but it seems I forgot my sitter is still in Texas and won’t be here. I hate to have to cancel, but is there anyway we can reschedule?”
Shit. I could feel her eye roll through the phone. Hell – even my eyes were rolling. How did triple-A personality, perfectionist college professor turn into a total flake?
Then just the other day I was organizing my closet shelves and instead of having a the various shirt piles like bed shirts, gym shirts, daylight shirts, and good-boob shirts, all I had was ONE BIG PILE. I’m so embarrassed to admit that I have worn the same shirts to the gym, to the store, and to bed. And on really bad days, I’ve done the bed-store, bed-gym, or the store-gym combos.
WTF? That is just not right.
But my membership deal sealer was hearing my voice on the home video tape that my daughter watches at least 3 times a day. Let’s just say I will never be a phone sex operator – unless you want a really loud, exquisitely enunciating cross between Julie Andrews, Ethel Merman, and Elle Woods from Legally Blonde.
Look. I know I’m loud. Of course, my husband is the only one who likes to remind me of this and he thinks that the tv on mute is loud. So really, I never listen to him. Obviously, it’s because I must have huge amounts of wax in my ears that block the resonance of my hugely annoying mom-voice.
And there it was. Loud, clear, and very enunciated.
“Whatttt does the trainah sayee? Whatttt does the trainah sayee? WOOOOOOOOOOOWOOOOOOOOOOOO. Is thatttt whatah the trainah sayzzzz?WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”
Oh. my. god. turn. it. off.
Granted I’m not Fran ala The Nanny or Janice ala Friends, but seriously, I’m on my way there, just in a more valley-girl-gone-bad sort of way.
And with that, I fulfill all the that mom membership requirements. I'm just wondering what’s next. The applique sweater and high-waisted jean uniform? A skirted bathing suit? An accordion coupon book?
Somebody save me.