I have a problem. The hem on my daughter’s school uniform has come undone and it needs sewn, but I don’t know how to do it. As a matter of fact, I recently gave my sewing machine to my in-laws because they will actually use it. Poor thing sat in my closet for 10 years without being touched. My husband bought me that machine with much wishful thinking, but I never even learned how to thread it.

But, sewing isn’t the only task I do miserably. It is just one of many reasons why I make a lousy housewife…

I am a rotten cook, my husband frequently runs out of clean underwear because I haven’t done the laundry, and the kitchen sink is often overflowing with dishes.

The most I can seem to run a sweeper is twice a week, when it should really be done every day. My dog sheds so much that I am constantly telling the children not to sit on the floor. I keep a lint brush handy, so their teachers won’t think I make them sleep on top of the dog’s bed, in their school clothes.

There is dust covered furniture with dust-bunnies underneath…and you don’t want to know what I find when a ball rolls under the oven and I have to pull it away from the wall.

The basement is cluttered with things I plan on putting out for a garage sale…the one I’ve been meaning to have for three years now. The floors need mopped, the curtains need washed, toys need disinfected, and the cabinets need scrubbed. I REALLY could go on and on.

But, I am good at some things…

I’ve read Barney books so often that I have them memorized, and I can whoop some butt at Candyland, PayDay, Chutes & Ladders and Sorry.

I have the patience to spend an entire Saturday afternoon putting together a jigsaw puzzle with two kids, and I wait for, what seems like eons, while my five year old says his prayers each night.

I can give a kid a good bath in two minutes flat, undo knotted shoelaces and necklaces in record speed, pack a lunch faster than a speeding bullet, and I always get my kids to school on time.

I manage to keep files from work, school papers, homework, committee documents, insurance forms and therapy instructions in order. And, I can be enthusiastic while watching magic tricks and shows put on by a five and nine year old. Over, and over, and over…

I can give a haircut to a squirming kid, floss the back teeth of a child with a severe gag reflex, and thanks to a “failure to thrive” diagnosis, I, along with my husband, managed without much sleep in order to feed our boy every three hours, round the clock, for 13 months straight.

I can heal boo-boos with a kiss, make up stories and songs to sooth a tired child, once danced around the lab at the hospital to distract my son while his blood was drawn, and have somehow mustered the strength to watch him get taken to surgery time after time.

So there. My daughter’s hem is out and I need someone else to sew it. I’m no domestic goddess, and I’m not a Super-Parent either, but I think I make a halfway decent Mom.

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My husband and I were at a basketball game yesterday afternoon, and during a time-out an emcee stood at the end of the court with one of the fans. He asked her if she was ready to play a game called, Guess What Year.

He boomed into the microphone and asked, “What year was the Academy Award winning song, ‘What a Feeling’, from the movie Flashdance, released?

I immediately turned to my husband and said, “1983”.

The emcee went on to ask two more questions, but I didn’t need to hear them.

I knew I was right, because I have Flashdance flashbacks. I clearly remember sitting among my sisters at a cousin’s wedding reception and watching my Mom jog around the dance floor to the Flashdance song, “Maniac“. For the record, she was completely sober.

I was twelve. I watched in horror (and that’s not too strong a word) as my Mom did a crazy, toe-stepping impression, straight out of the movie. The only things missing were the leg-warmers.

I remember holding my head in my hands and shaking it left and right, and when I finally looked up, I was shocked to see my Mom take things to another Flashdance level. She was alone on the dance floor, when she suddenly stopped in the middle of it, and poured a pitcher of water over her head.

My best friend has told me that I use the word mortified incorrectly. She says it doesn’t just mean humiliated, but embarrassed on so deep a level that you wish you were dead. The moment my Mom poured that water over her head, I was mortified.

It didn’t matter that we were surrounded by family members who were hysterical and doubled over with laughter. I was twelve. My Mom could walk through the room and it would embarrass me.

Now when I look back, I can’t help but laugh about it. I can appreciate that my Mom was having a good time, and I love that she was making people crack-up.

But more than anything, I smile because I have a different perspective now. I’m a parent, and I know that soon my daughter will be twelve. And, I find satisfaction in knowing there will be many opportunities to mortify her.

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