How to become humble, step-by-step

Most of us moms have pride issues. I'm gonna go ahead and say that. I know, because every time you come to our house, we apologize up and down about the mess (whether it exists or not). We express regrets with a sigh that dinner wasn't any earlier or more elaborate, and, well, we've all worn that infamous look of horror when the kid does or says something completely inappropriate so that other people can hear (gasp!). We all want other moms to think we're not just good at what we do, but superhuman. We don't care how that makes them feel; all that matters is that we ourselves are held up and admired in our peer group. I like to think that these daily humiliations we experience are opportunities to become better, less prideful.

I'm no exception. Y'all have got to hear my day.

I'm becoming better at reading my autistic child. It's not easy, so I don't always succeed. And it's been a process. But one would think that after he threw up for thirty days straight that I might--just might--be able to read the signs that he's nauseated. Apparently, I don't know how to do that just yet.

I carried him into his therapy school today and had just gotten done explaining to his therapist that he was acting weird when blammo! He threw up all over me. I totally looked cute today, too. I had on my gray skinny jeans with a tank top my husband said was gorgeous, and a lightweight blazer over top. A necklace that looked exactly right. Not a bit of it was spared. I was covered, head to toe, in regurgitated eggs, nearly an hour away from home.

I have to say this, though--the people at William's school have their people trained well in proper vomit protocol. Before William was even done throwing up, the room was completely cleared of all people who weren't helping with cleanup, everyone remaining had gloves on, and were armed with plastic bags and packages of wipes. Did I mention I love this place?

Anyway, I was a little immobilized. I'm like, looking down at myself, surveying the damage and trying to figure out how I'm supposed to help clean up this mess when it looks like I'm mostly contributing to it. One of the administrators told me they'd take care of William if I wanted to run to the bathroom and wash up. I asked if there was a promotional t-shirt lying around anywhere that I could wear home. She said she'd round something up for me.

So I turned to cross the building to the restroom. Now, I've made some embarrassing mistakes before. I've overdressed at events. I've underdressed. I've shown up uninvited and with an inappropriate gift. I've learned to acknowledge my mistake, throw my hands up, and own it. Know what, though? There's no way to own a look that involves vomit squishing in your flip flops. You just can't own that.

So, I wiped down my pants, pulled my shirts off and washed them in the sink. (Just fyi, I'm not sure what's worse for a woman's pride--covered in puke or half-naked and still smelly). M the administrator pokes her head in and says, "Hey, I found a shirt for you. Is it okay if it says something about Budweiser?" I assured her that I didn't care what the shirt said, and considered asking if an actual beer came with it. She left and I returned to feeling embarrassed for being "that" parent who tries to convince herself all morning that her kid's not sick even though he is, mad at myself for not reading him better and keeping him home instead of being a huge mess for a small bevy of therapists to have to attend to.

She returned with a blue shirt still folded in a plastic package. Apparently one of the administrators moonlights as a beer rep, so she had all these shirts in her car. Thank God. I wouldn't have cared if they were Neo-Nazi shirts. I threw it on and fussed over the bathroom. After what we've put everyone through, I really, really, don't want to be the lady who spread the vomit mess into the bathroom and left it to dry in the sink. Ugh.

I gave myself a quick glance in the mirror before I left, and, with horror, read my new shirt.

"NICE BUSCH"

Fantastic.

Work it out with fear and trembling, folks.