What Are We Mammas Made Of?

The dastardly GI bug that’s been stalking the innocent bagged The Mamma Sunday night.

Its rabid, hungry teeth bit hard, my legs were like caterpillar squish when they tried to answer the alarm’s revelry, and it took very little kitten-mewling-trying to know I wasn’t going to be doing many vertical activities Monday.

Superstud that I am, however,  I had myself convinced that I would be all up and able by this morning.  Wrong was I; and though that may sound like gracious, Yoda cadence, I was very unJedi in my Zen.  I don’t want to say I was a big baby about the whole thing, but I cried like a toddler who didn’t want to eat peas when I had to call in sick to work two days in a row.

I am not a big fan of my limits, and as any Mamma knows, even though the boat stays afloat, it’s just not the same cruise when a Mamma’s down.  Add to the equation that I was unable to take a birthday snack in for one of my kids for the first time in any of their lives, and I was ripe for a Pitty Party.

<Sniff!>

And do you know what tastes worse than NyQuil?  Pitty Party puke.  Nasty.

In lieu of a dose of self-loathing, we made a Plan B.  The Papa bought two dozen Spudnut donuts for the girl’s class on the way to school.  She was treated like every inch the birthday-princess she was today… The Middle Girl had Spudnut donuts, the only confection with a whole in the world good enough that other teachers come to the doors of the classrooms hoping for left overs like alms for the poor.

Our Plan B morphed into a Plan C when freezing rain made The Papa ditch our idea to go out to eat to celebrate her birthday as a family.  The Husband is kind.  He blamed the precipitation and not my green gills.  No one cared it was home spaghetti instead of Sal’s pasta, and we served our bread warm and straight out of the Pillsbury tube.  Instead of restaurant lemon-aide, we made chocolate milk in martini shakers, and served it ice-cold and frothy in martini glasses.  We pulled open the pantry and foraged ingredients to make brownies too.  They ate them hot standing up around the island in the kitchen.  The Middle Girl had a chocolate goatee under the Dr. Seuss birthday hat she’s worn every year since she was two.

All that mattered was that we were together.  Oh, yeah, it sure didn’t hurt that The Mamma In-Law got her The American Girl Doll, coveted Lanie, that The Middle Girl didn’t get for Christmas, and knew went into the archives as of January 1.  My ears still ring from her ear-splitting screams of joy.  Man, I just never wanted a doll has bad as that girl wanted Lanie.

It was The Middle Girl’s Birthday, but The Mamma received a gift of Grace from the family and a healthy booster about perspective.

What are little GI Bugs made of?
What are little GI Bugs made of?
Snog and wails
And moist, puke-y tales,
That’s what little GI bugs are made of.

What are little FLU bugs made of?
What are little FLU bugs made of?
Aching and moans
And it hurts in your bones,
That’s what little FLU bugs are made of.

What are we Mammas made of?
What are we Mammas made of?
Plans A, B and C
And veridicality,
That’s what we Mammas are made of.

I did my best,
it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel,
so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth,
I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!