Motherhood Moments — Catherine Burr

Some day my kids will write a tell-all, but for now, this book is my tell-all.

For my children's tell-all, one chapter will detail how their mother's idea of cooking dinner is well, lacking; that their mother's idea of cooking is to: A. Burns it (This really is not done on purpose). B. To order pizza. C. Make pancakes.

Schools should not serve pizza. Why? Because pizza is an easy, quick and tasty choice for undomestic moms everywhere. Pizza remains our meal of choice. That is besides pancakes for dinner, which I tried to convince my kids was actually a dinner meal and not breakfast. But back to pizza for a minute. My kids actually gave me a cease and desist on ordering pizza. “Mom, we have pizza every day at school. Do we have to have it at home too?” Yes. Yes you do…

I once strolled into the hallway and had to duck-and-cover because my sons were having a coin toss. No, not a coin toss like at a county fair where you merrily toss coins hoping to land on a plate in exchange for a stuffed animal or small trinket. No, I'm talking about pennies flying through the air like Major League baseball pitches. It's times like these, when a mother picks up the phone and calls her best friend, or her sister, or a fellow mom, or someone who will understand and listen.

Tattoo Moments: Okay, so I got a tattoo…I'm allowed, right? Wrong! I thought I'd surprise my family and hadn't told anyone, and so when a group of us were out to dinner, I wore a shirt that I knew would subtlety yet somewhat conspicuously show the newly acquired ink.

I couldn't help but wonder how long it would take anyone to notice the tattoo. Ten minutes? Five? An hour? Would anyone notice at all? Yup, before the waiter even brought the menus, my son glanced at me. And with a most horrified look on his face, he uttered, “Mom, is that a tattoo?”

Suddenly the chattering of family members and friends silenced. My other son, who was sitting at the far end of the long table, looked at me and his face said it all, but he repeated his brother's question almost verbatim adding a tone of disgust and disbelief, “Mom, you got a tattoo?”

I smiled proudly, “Yes. Do you like it?”

“What it is of?” An inquiring mind wanted to know.

My mind raced. I explained I had to leave to pick up Dad at the airport since his plane was coming in early.

“Wait!”

My sons weren't letting me go without further explanation and more precisely, they wanted to know, “What was I thinking?”

I insisted I had to leave, and so, slipping my credit card into my son's shirt pocket to pay for dinner, I made a quick get-a-away.

I arrived at the airport, picked up my husband and after arriving home; he tilted his head and asked, “Is that a tattoo?”

“Yes. Yes, it is,” I said.

The following day, my husband bombarded me with questions. “Did it hurt? Where did I get it done at?” And most importantly, “What was the tattoo of anyway?”

Honestly, with this much fuss about my “tattoo,” can you imagine what it would've been like if I'd actually gotten a real one?