Got an e-mail this morning from a journalist friend who refers to my book as "brilliant." (For the five or six persons in the Western Hemisphere who I haven't e-mailed already, it's called The Ghost in the House: Motherhood, Raising Children and Struggling with Depression, HarperCollins, due out Aug. 1, and you can order it now from Amazon)...and the remark is, of course, a nice little upper. "Thanks," I replied. "My children think I'm dumb as a rock." (This is true. My nine-year-old was grilling me on French phrases--Chick-Fil-A is giving away Learn to Speak French CDs in their kids' meals this week-- and was shocked! SHOCKED! to learn that I knew some French.) I signed off e-mail and started getting the kids out the door--one to summer camp, one to a doctor's appointment followed by summer camp. During the tumult I made an appalling discovery: no purse. Not in office, not in car, not in family room, not on top of hutch in kitchen....nowhere to be found. Cellphone (just purchased, cost $400, replacing one I'd recently lost), money, credit cards, checkbook, driver's license--all AWOL. The kids are in the car, the clock is ticking, I'm getting madder and madder. I storm through the house one last time and then race out to the car, nearly in tears. My five-year-old starts babbling happily and I say, "Shut up!" Although I apologize immediately, this makes me feel even shittier. Not only am I too dumb to hang onto my purse--Alzheimer's is setting in already--not only am I driving illegally without a license, but now I am picking on a five-year-old. The kids are very, very quiet. I drop off the five-year-old, who makes a point of giving me some art work she made from yesterday. I know she wants me to feel better, but that very fact makes me feel worse: I was rude to her, I misused the Awesome Power of Mommy against my own small child, and SHE wants ME to feel better. The nine-year-old reacts similarly, trying to make me laugh by reminding me of funny movie scenes we have watched. "Remember, Mom? 'Scawy clown...'" "Yeah," I reply, smiling grimly. Where is my goddamned purse? I drop her off, get home, start looking again. No luck. I've been known to leave my purse in the car on more than one occasion; now I figure the odds have caught up with me, and somebody has stolen it. I'm heading into my office to call the credit card companies when I spot my stuff...scattered all over my five-year-old's bedroom floor.
No, I'm not stupid. Nor am I brilliant. I am just one highly imperfect, stressed-out mom.