Today is National I Am in Control Day which makes me heady with the prospect of wielding an embarrassment of power from sunup to sundown (which, I imagine, is a lot like living in the delusional worlds of people like Charlie Sheen and Moammar Gadhafi). Admittedly, I’ve entertained such foolishness before, allowing the savory notion of a perfect day to wrap me in the cloak of whimsy. However, today, my indulgence is very nearly legitimate. I Googled it, therefore it must be so. I even went so far as to search for an official badge that proclaims I AM IN CONTROL TODAY, so that I might convince those with whom I reside to take heed to humor me so that I might feel a wee bit important.
Badge or no badge, I’m giving myself permission to plunge headlong into the aforementioned fantasy—to embrace the delicious possibility that I could actually manipulate the Universe, causing an abundance of things to go my way for an entire square on the calendar. For starters, I’d insist that the idiocy of daylight-saving time be declared null and void and I’d order everyone in the Northern Hemisphere to go back to rising with the sun instead of dragging themselves out of bed at dark-thirty. Even my dog recognizes the inherent stupidity of such behavior, judging by the bewildered look he wears each morning, right before my husband takes him outside to whiz in the lawn.
Furthermore, I’d wave my magic wand (or my blasted snow shovel) and voilá, blue skies and balmy breezes would prevail for the duration of this marvelous March day. You’re welcome, my dear friends and fellow members of the Winter Has Made Me Entirely Miserable Club. I would then ship Punxsutawney Phil straight to Siberia as punishment for the lies he’s told. Next, I’d likely target the many and varied idiosyncrasies present in my home—more specifically, Thing One’s penchant for imploding whenever I encourage her to try something new. Say, a bologna sandwich or something really exotic, like Spaghetti-O’s. In a word, her proclivity to refuse that-which-is-molecularly-unlike-chicken-nuggets would be rendered nonexistent for one solid day. I get giddy just thinking about it.
Likewise, I’d mumble some sort of gibberish and lo and behold, Thing Two would skip a goodly portion of the morning routine I know and loathe (i.e. that less-than-endearing wedge of time during which the child in question shrieks at anyone and everyone interested in rousting her from her cave-inspired lair in time to catch the school bus). In addition, she’d refrain from having a seizure over whatever the radio happened to be blaring, the apparent lame quality of the clothing I suggest or the intolerable nature of the wrinkles in her socks. Nor would she dream of dawdling over breakfast or eliciting all manner of rage within her sister, despite her uncanny ability to do so simultaneously.
Naturally, I’d demand that the rest of my day be soused in wonderfulness, too—free of worry or interruption, blissfully punctuated with productivity and totally devoid of the discovery of unflushed toilets. Moreover, when my brood would arrive home from school, I’d see to it that things would only improve. Not one complaint over the practicing of instruments would arise, nor would anyone go ballistic if and when someone’s music stand toppled to the floor, spilling folders and sheet music everywhere. Similarly, backpacks would be emptied without objection, homework would be completed with glee and the siren song of the Disney Channel would, incomprehensibly, fail to entrance those in my charge. Oh, and my oldest would actually answer her cell phone in a timely manner and (gasp!) deposit her shoes someplace besides the most heavily traveled paths in my home. I would need only to point to my imaginary badge or use my mind powers to convey such a powerful message.
What’s more, dinner would be an utter delight. No monumental arguments involving mashed potatoes, perceived injustices with regard to allotted computer time or debates over whose scooter was still in the yard would ensue. Dishes would be ferried to the sink without prompting or protest and the phrase, “I’m bored,” would rear its ugly head no more. Even better, at the snap of my fingers, my cherubs would say their goodnights and head upstairs to bed. Stranger still, not once would I feel an overwhelming compulsion to mention that the average shower depletes the earth of roughly 3.5 gallons of water a minute; because, of course, everyone in this household would already know that.
They would also be keenly aware of my fanciful status and (hopefully) eager to humor me this National I Am in Control Day.
Planet Mom: It’s where I live (profoundly immersed in a delusion of grandeur).
Copyright 2011 Melinda L. Wentzel