Worst morning ever

Most moms I know can remember the really bad mornings, the ones that didn’t involve death or dismemberment, but were equally as upsetting. I know I can. Try and beat this.

01.04.07

After getting my children ready for school, I went into my room for my favorite daily ritual: staring into the magnifying mirror and blaming every new wrinkle on the Bush administration. Then I walked over to my jewelry box to put on my engagement, wedding, and labor rings.

What is a labor ring, you ask? According to my friend Elise, who knows more than God, labor rings are what nice Jewish husbands give you in exchange for a healthy baby. Usually they’re called “push presents,” but since I didn’t push anything except the patience and good will of every nurse in labor and delivery that day…

Said rings weren’t in my jewelry box. This happened quite a bit back in the days when I didn’t take them off before that afternoon cocktail. Sometimes I’d put the rings in whatever pair of pants I was wearing. So I dug into the hamper, pulled out a pair of pants from the day before and searched the pockets.

Nothing.

I sat there dumbfounded. This was new. I’d had the engagement ring since 1991, wedding ring since 1995, and labor ring (one of those past, present and future numbers) since the boys were born in 2000. Never before could I not find them.

“Mommy, whatcha lookin’ for?” Oldest inquired from the doorway.

“Rings,” I said softly.

“Are they up your butt?” he asked, laughing.

I started to sob. Only twice in my life have tears and snot run together into my mouth. Once was when they stopped making support hose. And the other was the morning I lost the only jewelry I had that didn’t come from a vendor outside a Grateful Dead show.

My children rubbed my back and whispered, “I’m sorry” while I succumbed to a full-blown nervous breakdown, searching through dirty clothes and way too many industrial-strength undergarments. After about ten minutes, still nothing. When we walked outside to the car, I noticed our water pipe broke and was close to flooding our entire lawn.

I quickly cut off the water supply and cursed suburbia for the 990th time. Then I called one of my dad’s friends for a quick repair, left the key on the front porch, and proceeded to drive my children to school. I continued crying during the entire ride and have never seen them so quiet.

I called my colleagues at work and asked them to look around my desk.

“There’s nothing on your desk, Katie,” one co-worker said. “You make Martha Stewart look unorganized.”

Another said, “They’ll turn up somewhere. Maybe you put them under something.”

“You’ve seen my house,” I snapped. “There’s nothing to put them under. No clutter of any kind. I’m allergic to debris! Where the hell are they?”

Husband had an idea.

“Perhaps you left them on someone’s nightstand.”

Jokes about our open marriage are always perfect when I’m heartbroken and choking on my own phlegm. It occurred to me then that I didn’t check the right pants. A ray of hope shown through the darkness that perhaps my sentimental treasures were not forever gone.

Returned home after work and checked the correct pants. Rings were safely tucked inside. The lawn was no longer flooded. On the kitchen counter lay an empty beer can and a bill for $300.

All was right with the world.

Then it hit me.

Did my six year-old actually say, “…up your butt?”