It’s hard to be
awesome all the time. I should know. I’m a mom. And I live in the middle of a
chaotic kind of awesome every day. First, let’s clarify. I’m not talking about
being a perfect mom. Perfection is laced with stress, guilt and expectation.
Being awesome is different and more appealing because it can be defined so many
different ways. There is the sarcastic kind of awesome, as in, watching a full
gallon of chocolate milk slip from your toddlers hands and cover the freshly
mopped floor. That’s just awesome. The sweet relief kind of awesome when you tuck
your kids in to bed and enjoy a pint of your favorite ice cream all by
yourself. And especially those moments when you catch your breath because you
just realized how amazing your children are and how lucky you are to be their
mother.
The thing is,
motherhood can be exhausting. The expectations are overwhelming to do
everything and be everything to everyone all at the same time. It’s challenging
to be awesome when you’re running on empty. Or almost empty, as was the case
when I took my five kids on a summer outing to the mountains. It had been a
long week for everyone and by the time Friday rolled around, everyone was ready
for a break. The beautiful fall colors and cool mountain air were the perfect
escape.
Making our way
to American Fork canyon was a breeze. Majestic trees lined the road like sentries
as it wove through the forest like a ribbon playing peek-a-boo with the river.
Twenty minutes
into the drive, my son asked, “Do you know where you’re going?”
“Yep. We follow
this road all the way to the Springs,” I said, hugging a narrow turn like a pro.
“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing, I’m a mom and I’m pretty much awesome all
the time!” Parker rolled his eyes at the familiar phrase I repeated over and
over, hoping to brainwash my children. I didn’t look behind me but I’m sure
Parker wasn’t the only one rolling his eyes. I smiled and glanced at my
dashboard just as the red light near the fuel gauge lit up. Adrenaline shot
through my veins like a tsunami.
I was in the
middle of the mountains on a narrow road, riding the edge of a cliff like a
dare-devil and I was about to run out of gas. Oh my sweet children. Forgive me
now. Reluctantly, I pressed my foot on the gas pedal to climb another hill.
What kind of mother does this? A pretty
much awesome one, said my snarkiest inner voice.
Running on what
I knew was fumes, we finally pulled into the parking lot at the Springs. I pulled
the key out of the ignition and released a deep breath. This is it. We find
help here or we don’t. I should have brought more granola bars.
I followed my
children on the dirt path to a pavilion occupied by an elderly couple and a young,
female park ranger. Angels sang faintly in the background as an aura of light
descended around the ranger’s head. This
is awesome! I thought. Surely she will know what to do.
I introduced my
family and answered a few questions. Where are you from? Have you been here
before? Are these children all yours? With the pleasantries behind us, I began
to explain my predicament with a complete lack of volume control. I lectured
myself silently even as I rattled on. Dial
it down! Press the mute!
Pity and concern
oozed from the ranger’s face. “Gosh. What’re you going to do?” The angels
sputtered and choked on the final chorus. “I’ll be leaving in an hour,” she
offered. “I could follow you out if you want to wait that long.”
A long hour later, my children huddled around
me, staring at each other in ominous silence as we contemplated our dire
situation.
“Maybe
we should say a prayer,” Camille said.
“I already did,”
said Parker, “twice.”
“We’re going to be just fine,” I said and
forced the most comforting mommy smile I could pull out of the pit in my
stomach.
When the ranger
pulled out of the parking lot, we were in close pursuit. Each hill we climbed
toward the summit seemed to suck gas like a toddler with a popsicle. I pleaded
to heaven for forgiveness, making deals like a race track bookie. If I get out
of this canyon, I will always check my gas tank before a trip. I will never
yell at my innocent, patient, sweet little angels again. I will stop sneaking
the kids’ candy from their hiding spots in their bedrooms. I promise, whatever
it takes.
Not daring to
touch the gas and barely touching the brakes we finally birthed out of the
mouth of the canyon like a bat out of hell. At this point, the van was
practically floating on faith. From the backseat Bryce chanted, “I love Jesus,
I love Jesus.”
The children
erupted in cheers as we pulled in to the gas station. The ranger, who parked at
the pump in front of us, walked back, smiling at the raucous celebratory noise.
“I don’t know
how but you made it,” she said.
“I’m a mom and
I’m pretty much awesome all the time. Moms are cool like that,” I bragged.