Where’s My Mother Of The Year Award?

It’s award show season and I’m just a teeny bit fed up of the red carpet. Maybe I’m just jealous because mine is only red in splotches from fruit punch. Maybe I’m waiting on my Mother of the Year award, like Susan Lucci and her Emmy all those years ago. It will probably take me 18 years to win that honour too.

Perhaps my irritation stems from my impatience with all the questions reporters ask glamorous starlets because my son takes #AskHerMore to a whole new level.

At seven years old, his sentences perpetually lilt upwards as he attempts to extract every piece of information I may have ever assimilated. He is an incredibly adorable but committed one-man interrogation team. Questions aside, since I’m not a celebrity, there’s no running commentary on my wardrobe choices as I go about my business in the world.

The lack of commentary is a good thing, since my style ranges from “weekend athletic hobo chic” to “professional-ish things that don’t smell and have generous elastic waistbands so I can breathe after lunch.”  My colour palette is designed to effortlessly camouflage latte stains. Sitting in my comfy cozies, reading the social media coverage of all the festivities, I began to consider what awards I would give out in my household.

My son is a shoo-in for “Most Convincing Swan Song” for every time he manages to even slightly hurt himself at play. His face contorts in anguish as if this injury might be the final blow.  He sobs and whines, but all traces of trauma vanish when he is presented with an ice cream cone or the opportunity to take a sunny walk down to Starbucks. It’s a complex display of the serious acting chops he did not inherit from me.

The other award I would dearly love to present to him is the Academy Award For Best Original Song. In the morning, when I wake him, I nudge him gently and sing “Good Morning, my Liam, I love you!” His eyes spring open and he smiles. He is less resentful at the intrusion of his blissful sleep. This is our weekday routine. On weekends, he comes into my room and sings, “Good Morning, my mommy, I love you!” and nudges me awake. I melt at his melodic little voice, dripping with love, even if it’s greatly exaggerated in hopes I will make him some bacon. Bacon is Mother of the Year material in his books.

I may never win the coveted Mother of the Year Award, but I wouldn’t trade those fruit punch splotches for all the Ralph Lauren couture gowns in the world. Besides, none of them appear to have generous elastic waistbands.