Mother Of The Year

The annual kindergarten’s winter visit to the local animal farm was the most anticipated trip at Our Lady Of Sorrows Elementary School, and I always enjoyed volunteering for it. Watching the kids milk the cow, hold the baby chicks and pet the llamas was usually delightful. Usually.

As the children were marched into the parking lot, we moms huddled around Rich, the only father who ever volunteered. Holding out our travel mugs, Rich poured a generous glug of Jameson into our coffees from his hip flask, carful not to get caught by the principal, Sister Mary Margaret Anne. Hey, don’t judge us…it’s cold on the farm!

The teachers divide the kids among us and we all piled onto the bus.

We’d barely gotten on the road when I noticed one of my charges was quietly crying, her head resting against the seat in front of her.

I got down on one knee in the aisle and put my hand on her arm. “What’s the matter, Remy?” I asked.

“I told my mom I didn’t feel good,” she whined, “but she said I had to go to school anyway ’cuz she had something to do today.” She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her parka.

“Do you have a headache, honey?”

“No, it’s my…” Before she could finish her sentence, the splash of her projectile vomit hit my cheeks and chin, dribbling down the inside of my mock turtleneck. Hot and chunky, it smelled like rancid nacho cheese dip. I called upon my sheer force of will not to return the favor.

The rest of the passengers turned and stared at us, their mouths agape. I snapped at them to mind their own “bee’s wax” as I wiped the puke off of myself with some dirty tissues I’d found in my coat pocket. Remy cried even harder as she sobbed an apology.

“Take it easy, honey.” I tried to sound soothing between my dry heaves. “What’s your mother’s phone number?” I asked her.

Remy pulled out a cell phone that looked to be about three times more expensive than my own. She dialed the number and handed it to me. After it rang and rang and rang, a gravely voice ordered, “Leave a message.” No pleasantries. No, “Please.” Just a barking, “Leave a message.” I tried five more times as we bounced along the bumpiest of country roads. No answer. No call back.

By the time we arrived at the farm, I was fragrant, damp and mad as hell at Remy’s mom. But the fresh farm air seemed to put some color back into the kid’s cheeks. It seemed the worst was over until Remy told me she thought she might have diarrhea, and asked me to take her to the bathroom.

Now, on the farm, they don’t have bathrooms, only Port-O-Potties. Fun fact about me: I will “hold it” for two days before I’ll get within 50 feet of one of those things. But, I was responsible for this child and had no choice. I took her and waited outside the door. Normally, I’d pull my shirt up over my nose, but since it was now drenched in cold bile, I buried by face in my sleeve instead.

“Mrs. Rosner!” she called though the door. “I dropped my cell phone!”

Grimacing, and with my voice full of hope, I asked, “On the floor?”

“No!”

Oh. Dear. God.

She opened the door with fresh tears running down her cheeks. “I dropped it in the toilet! My mom’s gonna kill me!” She looked terrified.

My first thought was, "kids always say their parents will kill them," but then I made a mental tally of the only things I knew about Remy’s mother: 1. She bought a 5-year-old a $400 phone; 2. She sent that 5-year-old to school, knowing she was sick; 3. She ignored repeated phone calls from her sick 5-year-old’s $400 phone and finally, 4. She burdened a sweet little girl with a name that brings to mind strippers and cognac.

After quickly assessing these tidbits of information, I deduced that Remy might very well be in danger of a whooping when she got home. There was only one thing to do…I’d have to retrieve her phone.

I sought out a farmhand for a pair of rubber gloves. Long rubber gloves. Rich saw me putting them on and asked what they were for. He turned a little green when I told him. “You’re not seriously gonna stick your hand in there, are you?” he asked.

“Not if you’re willing to do it for me,” I said.

“You’ve got the wrong guy, sweetheart,” he laughed. “But may I offer you a little more liquid courage?” He sneaked the flask to me with our backs turned to the others, who were running around the grounds and not watching us anyway.

I took a quick gulp and handed it back. “Here goes nothing,” I sighed.

“Aw, fuck,” I could hear him whisper to himself as I turned to go fishing in a great big bowl of excrement stew, but not before adding my own puke to the mix.