Hand me that Mother of the Year award RIGHT FRIGGIN' NOW, please

Some of my readers have said the nicest things about my parenting, but really the truth is I just have a great kid (most of the time). As I parent, I am unbelievably inadequate in many ways. To give a few examples: I have a mercurial temper, I swear like a sailor, I do not have a universal love of children (I like many of them once I get to know them, but as a group? Eh.), I hate going to the park, and I refuse to sign up my daughter for soccer (the season conflicts with my our skiing. Plus, those soccer games? Booo-ring.

But yesterday I really pulled it out. I almost died for my kid. Here's what happened.

I woke up feeling just dandy (per usual) but by midmorning decided I was feeling very undandy and went home to climb into bed. I had some kind of stomach bug. I broke our family ban on soda by consuming a glass of ginger ale (hid away for circumstances such as this), which I promptly barfed up. Sorry if that's too much information, but we're talking about illness here. Anywhoo, I was "enjoying" an afternoon of lying in bed repeating the cycle of read, sleep, barf, repeat when I realized I had told Sophie I would pick her up at summer camp early to take her to her violin lesson. The second to last lesson before her recital, so an important one (recall that I whore her out to the SF Opera so I can see free opera, so I've become a bit of a stage mom). Plus I had told her to be ready to go early, and unlike me, she never forgets anything, so she would be waiting and worry if I did not show.

So I peeled myself out of bed and staggered to the car— armed with a handful of plastic produce bags. The cycle was now drive, pull over, barf into bag, recline in seat for a minute, repeat. I pulled up to the camp office and had to spend 15 minutes negotiating the track-down of my kid. (She's up at swimming! No—she's over at soccer now!) "Fine," I told them, "I am sick and absolutely cannot get out of this car. I need some assistance here. You need to send someone to get her down here." I could tell by the looks on their faces they were scared. For all they knew I could be going through heroin withdrawal.

I finally got Sophie in the car and drove her to her lesson. Usually I sit right beside her so I can help micromanage her lesson (really, it's so I can ride her ass when she practices at home), but I sent her in by herself and pulled the car around to a shady spot so I could barf in peace. After the longest two hours in history, I got home and crawled back in bed, with the feeling that for once I had really nailed the mom thing. For once.

Sophie got me all set up in bed: water with a bendy straw, a bell to ring for service, and a thermometer. My 101 degree fever broke later that night, and by morning my stomach was mostly settled. Thanks goodness because I am absolutely convinced that Husband could not get Sophie's backpack and lunch adequately packed for camp. She could probably do it herself in a pinch, but him? No way. Although he did make chicken soup from scratch for dinner last night. Or so he says. I'll give my verdict when I taste it tonight. At any rate, Sophie proclaimed it "delicious!" Did I mention that he served it at 9:00 at night? I had to ring my bell furiously to admonish Sophie to hurry up, eat, and get to bed—immediately (probably her first five-syllable word).

I'm back at work but still a little queasy. The food post I have on deck will remain there until I'm feeling a little better. Preview: chicken marinade for dummies and white bean salad that is so good you won't care if it gives you gas.