By Marchel Alverson CMG Contributor
Excessive gas and hot flashes push a middle-aged mother to her breaking point at her son’s
orchestra recital. Just when she thinks she can’t take anymore, the unthinkable happens.
The magnetic bumper sticker on the back of my mini-van sums up my life perfectly—I used to
be cool. Before middle-aged spread, stretch marks and deflated breasts. Before I found a need
for clinical deodorant, feminine powder and triple-blade razors. Before I started crying at
detergent commercials and then ranting because, “How come a man can’t put the damn
detergent in the washer?” “Why does it always have to be a woman?”
The commercial still haunts me as I walk with my two offspring on each arm while trying to
keep my purse on my shoulder?
I used to be cool.
Mackenzie and Aaron don’t get my bumper sticker. Before I placed it on the van on the day I
bought it, I caught them playing frisbee with the sticker outside the garage. All hell broke loose
when I saw the symbolism of my life flying through the air and land next to pile of dog poop in
the yard. My life had literally gone to shit. Once they saw the enraged look on my face they
jumped on their bikes, leaving me to pick up my life.
We walk into the concert hall of Summit Pointe Middle School where Aaron will perform with
the sixth-grade orchestra. Aaron has a solo, sort of. It’s more like three cello players who will
play together during ten seconds of the last song on the program. So that counts. When I post
his performance on Instagram, it’ll be a solo. Aaron will sound like a child prodigy. Absent will
be the painful, piercing, gut-wrenching, high-pitched wince of some type of cackling animal
neither foreign or domestic. A sixth-grade orchestra concert is pure torture. There’s no other
way to describe it. Nevertheless, I bend over, give Aaron a kiss on his cheek and wish him luck.
Aaron tugs at my checkered-patterned dress. “Mama, Mackenzie stole my retainer.”
“What? Oh, honey, why would she take your retainer? That doesn’t even sound like something
she would do.”
“She took it. I saw her!”
“No, I didn’t!”
Oh, God, this is so not the suburban way to be!
“Five, four, three, two…If I get to one, it won’t be pretty. Aaron go. Mackenzie let’s find a
seat…now!”
Aaron slowly makes his way to the stage. Mackenzie stomps her seven-year-old feet. Her glow-
in-the dark tennis shoes light up.
“Mama…”
“Not another word. What did I just say?”
Just as we take our seats, the taco’s I ate earlier hit me from both ends. Acid reflux and gas.
Who ordered the combo? I’m about to let loose when I see Stan, my ex-husband, rush in. Yes,
I’m a divorcee, another strike against me.
“Mama, I have to go the bathroom,” Mackenzie utters.
“Ok, honey.”
Stan sits next to me. The smell of his cologne makes me gag, but it does mask my passing gas.
Exit Mackenzie. Enter miserable small talk.
“So, how have you been Deborah?”
“Fine Stan, and you?”
I have no idea what he says after that because at this moment the “robo” moms enter the
concert hall and make their way up to the front row. Any mother who lives in the suburbs can
instinctively spot “robo” moms. It doesn’t matter if their Black, white, stay-at-home moms, or
flexible-scheduled, perfectly synced-calendar-user ones. They all have one thing in
common—they up the mom game exponentially. And just when you think you’ve finally caught
up to them, they raise the bake sale bar.
No one can out-yoga, out-gym, out-cook, out-hair, out-clean, out-car, out-clothe or out-
extracurricular them. I swear a spotlight shines down on them when they as they sit down. Mrs.
Grant takes the stage and smiles, looking way too happy to be teaching strings to middle school
students.
Mackenzie returns and lays her curls on my shoulder. Instant sweat. I stay like this until the last
shrill of strings. I nearly toss Mackenzie to the floor as I stand up and clap. More gas.
“Parents, don’t forget. There’s cookies and punch right outside the concert hall. Please stay and
enjoy the refreshments,” Mrs. Grant says. Shit.
I’m a gassy, sweaty mess as we walk the few feet to the outer hallway. Mackenzie grabs my
hand. “Ugh, why is your hand so sweaty.” She wipes her hand on her jeans and frowns. I shoot
her the mama look. She turns to talk to her father, who no doubt is ready to leave too.
The “robo” moms step to me. I cringe. “Hello ladies,” I say. I manage a smile as I pat my
dripping face with a napkin.
“Hello, Deborah, we missed you at last night’s parents’ meeting.”
“I’m so sorry I missed it.”
“Well, you did get the e-newsletter didn’t you?” Sip.
“Would you excuse me please,” I say.
As I walk away, I see something floating at the bottom of the punch bowl. Little indentations of
teeth along clear plastic and wire. Paper cups pressed against tiny lips and adult mouths. The
“robo” moms. I catapult back to where Mackenzie is and pull her away.
“Mackenzie, did you take Aaron’s retainer?”
“Answer me! Did you take Aaron’s retainer?”
She nods her head.
“And where did you put it?”
She points to the bowl. “I dropped it in there. He called me a big baby.”
I stand there cemented to the floor. What do I do? I can’t dump it out and announce that my
kid’s retainer is at the bottom of the punch bowl and they are drinking the remnants of his spit,
and probably some mucus too. I also can’t put my Black hand inside the bowl to retrieve his
retainer. Things not to do in a suburban school while Black. And, how come there are no men in
detergent commercials?
I have no choice. I lift my head up, grab my kids and walk outside. Tomorrow, I will call the
dentist and make an appointment for a new mouthguard.
I used to be cool.
