Hey, Mama

It's a well-known fact amongst my friends that I'd never intended to have children. Unlike many of my female peers throughout Manhattan, marriage was a possibility, but motherhood was out of the question. Imagine my surprise when Fate threw me the curveball of a man with children. A man with childen -- with custody!

One of the reasons I would make a terrible mother is this: Kevin is performing in a Hurricane Katrina relief concert at his high school, and I begged off with a headache. The headache is real -- a combination of pre-menstrual, peri-menopausal, potential-migraine -- so nothing would be more disastrous than to add teenaged musicians to the mix.

A good mother, a real mother would sacrifice her throbbing head to support the endeavours of her offspring. I make no sacrifices, ergo, I would be a crappy mother. Well, maybe not as crappy as someone who would lock their children in a closet and deny them a proper diet and hygiene. No, I'd be several steps above that sort of mother. I'd even be ahead of the mother who parked outside the yarn store today, left her baby in the running car -- music blarring -- while getting herself a toasted bagel at the deli next door.

It's a shame about the headache and the missed concert. Really, it is. I think my Ubernatural would have been just cool enough for hanging out at the high school amidst the fashion senselessness of sloughy-pants, Shaggyesque, suburban slacker/gangsta-wanna-bes.

Actually, it's a sad state of affairs. It's a Halloween weekend, and I'm happy to skip live music for the chance to sit home alone and knit. I'm no one's mother, but I've really tapped into the Mrs. Cleaver persona.