Shrinking Boobs

My guilty pleasure is courtroom shows. I watch Judge Judy, Judge Cristina, Judge Joe Brown, and my favorite, Judge Mathis in the basement while I fold laundry. I will never forget watching one of these shows when I first started staying home and one of the defendants was Aquanetti Jones. I swear.

Anyway, the commercials during these shows are focused toward the demographic the advertisers assume to be watching tv at that time. There are ads for truck driving schools, how to become a dental assistant in three short months, or air conditioning repair.

One day I was stopped short of balling up a fitted sheet by the following ad, which I think is not only very applicable to most moms I know, but also the funniest I have ever seen. Enjoy.

Saint Anne of West Elm

Have you ever known someone who makes you feel so completely incompetent, you start to doubt yourself? I think I am a pretty good mom. Not that I always feel good about it, it is, as they say, a thankless job. My kids think I suck. They yell at me, hit me and yell "I hate you Mommy." My husband admits openly that he could not do what I do, but he's tired when he gets home and would rather not hear a run-down of the inane errands that fill every moment of the day.

Of course I am not perfect. My car is a mess. My house is often a mess. I have created a new Olympic event called Laundry Procrastination and the breakfast dishes often are in the sink until 4pm. My boys only brush their teeth once a day and I don't change the sheets every week. My kids' clothes rarely match (which could go either way, since this is because they get themselves dressed), and worst of all, I yell at my kids. I have three boys so they fight. Wrestle, fist fight, bite, scratch, you name it. I feel terrible about it until I talk to another mom of all boys. This happens to the best of us, so I feel a little bit better about myself. Then I met the woman in my parish they refer to as Saint Anne of West Elm.

I first heard of Saint Anne from legend. I knew she had five boys, all evenly spaced and all look completely identical but for age. Whenever we see them in public her kids are so well-behaved that my husband one time surmised "I am sure there has to be some wood to ass in that house." She drives a full-size conversion van, and to top it all off, she watches two of someone else's kids during the day. I noticed she is associated with the Who's Who of our parish and school. She volunteers for everything, works out at the gym three times a week, and a friend of mine told us they live in a three-bedroom house on (you guessed it) West Elm Street.

My first one-on-one experience with Saint Anne was at a playground. She is very matter-of-fact in her attitude and manner of speech. Usually when I strike up a conversation at a playground almost always comes around to "Oh my gosh, three boys so close together, how do you stay sane?" My internal answer is "I don't." She had three of her boys and her newborn daughter with her, and the one thing I noticed is she never once referred to one of her children by the wrong name, not once. Each and every time I address one of my sons I go through the entire repertoire of names, including the dog, until I hit the right one.

We both have boys in kindergarten, and, as you would assume, she is the room mother, and I volunteered to help with the Christmas party. She really ran around doing everything, and had everything done before I even figured out what we were supposed to be doing. She also had brought her two youngest where I had gotten a sitter because I knew I would never be able to concentrate. The children had cookies and juice, she read them a story and they did a craft. I felt completely useless so when I got home I did the dishes and scrubbed the sink as if someone were going to lick it. Then I sat down and wrapped presents with my kids and we built railroad tunnels out of Mega Blocks.

I couldn't do what she does. But someone with one girl thinks she couldn't do what I do. Even though I truly enjoy my children, sometimes I complain and talk about how much I'd like to go back to work, when my friend Lisa would like nothing more than to stay home with her kids. And maybe, just maybe, Saint Anne of West Elm has better brain chemistry that I do. Wouldn't take much.

I used to say "God gives you what you can handle, and that doesn't say much about me." But it does say a lot. Maybe Anne can appear to handle more than I do, but, as they say, we all have our own cross to bear. We can't see the crosses of others. And if we could, we would see them through the window of our own.