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It was one of those mornings when the snooze button got hit a little too much and when I finally woke, the kitten was dragging a piece of chicken breast out of the garbage and onto my bed. To make matters worse, it was a hot June Monday in New York City and the air conditioner decided to change careers and become a Zen master and keep quiet.

Eight a.m. and my son was still asleep, but the kitten was wide awake and the chicken was doing a free range thingy all over my bed. I rushed out of bed and climbed onto the top bunk bed. (Why, I asked myself, was this a necessary purchase? I only have one kid.) I called out the little cherub's name -- no reply -- and then called out again with one hand patting him, the other arm hanging out for balance.

I got down and ran to the bathroom and remembered while brushing my teeth that today was the class trip to Central Park. That means a bag lunch. Great, I have nothing in the fridge and he needs a lunch that the other kids won't tease him about. (A word of warning: Never pack sardines for your child or years of therapy await.) I yell from the toilet, "Taylor, get up now, you have a school trip and it is 8:15. I have to get showered and dressed and get lunch from the deli." Still no response. I shower, I feed the cat, I step on chicken, my son creeps out of his bunk and fumbles his way to the bathroom.

I am now applying make-up in the hot, humid bathroom, while my son pees on the toilet -- that's on the toilet, not in. He tells me, "Mom, why didn't you wake me earlier? I have to find three of my favorite basketball cards that I'm trading for 40 semi-good cards." I say, "How did you arrive at that trade? That doesn't seem fair." He flushes. "I didn't say it was fair, it's just a trade." I tell him to get dressed, he complains that his underwear is too tight, so he changes; now it is too loose, he changes; then his shirt is too small, he changes; then his shirt is like a dress, he changes. I tell him he has three seconds to get ready or he is going naked to his class trip and no one will pay attention to the park, just to his butt. He tells me I am a mean mother. I agree.

There is a knock at my door. I pretend not to hear it. I am late. Knock again. I tuck my shirt into my skirt and pick up the kitten. A man in a green uniform says he's the maintenance man, although I'm not actually listening because the cat's claws are digging into the Wonderbra I am wearing for the date I have after work. The man is saying something about asbestos, fire, keys, etc. I tell my son to get his book bag and brush his teeth (8:27 a.m.) and he replies, "Why do I need to brush my teeth with my book bag?"

The man at the door says he needs to do some work in my walk-in closet because the garbage room could light on fire. I can't comprehend this. My son is yelling in the back that the toothpaste is too hot. I tell him to just rinse his mouth. I glance at the man's name tag, the red-scribbled script with the imprinted name "Pedro," and say, "Listen, Pedro, this is news to me, I am late for work and my son has a trip. Please come back this evening or, better yet, this weekend." He looks at me as if I were speaking Vulcan. "Misses, we have to come in now because of the policy and because of the fire problem." I'm confused. "Is there a fire now?" I ask.

The elevator opens and out walks three more supers. They identify themselves and I say, "Hey guys, pretend I wasn't home." My son is tugging at my skirt now. "Mom, Ma, Mother, Mom, Mommy." I don't answer. The men are all mumbling something about how urgent it is, how they have to do it now or they'll have to call the police. "What?" Then my son informs me that the toilet has overflowed and his No. 2 (although he calls it "dudy") is on the green towels. I tell the men at my door that this is really a bad time and that they need to leave and if they need to call the police, so be it (8:35 a.m.).

I get down on my knees, pick up the No. 2 and gag while putting it into a Hefty bag, and the kitten steps into the puddle that has formed on the bottom of the bathroom floor, seeping into the living room. I am now sweating; the silk blouse is wet. I throw more of the good green towels down on the floor and we rush to the deli. "Mom, why are the police coming?"

"I don't know, but Mommy will be OK."

"Mom, please get me a turkey sandwich with chopped lettuce, not ripped or sliced, and with no tomatoes on a little hard bread." I think to myself, is he out of his &^%$&* mind? I order a turkey sandwich with lettuce and mustard on Italian bread. "Deal with it," I scold him. "You are such a mean mother. Can I have chips at least?"

We leave and he goes to school, late with a long shirt on and baggy underwear. I, on the other hand, remember that I am now a wanted criminal for reasons unknown to me, so I decide to make the day a complete disaster by stopping into my management office to find out why I am being harassed by the men in green. They explain that some letter went out, which I never received, and start stressing the importance of having my bedroom wall torn down and the pipes covered. Then the wall would go back up and get repainted. They say there's some sort of new commissioner and the apartment complexes are a real fire hazard. Not that I'm a pyromaniac or something, but I say not today, this fire replacement thingy needs to start some other time. They insist that since I am home and I answered the door, the project needs to commence at once.

I call work and say I guess I won't be in today. Should I continue? The nurse calls from school and tells me that my son has ringworm, could I pick him up? (The ringworm is from the kitten.) The wall is coming down in his bedroom, so he sleeps with me, only to give me ringworm. It is only 11:46 a.m. and I have not yet answered my voice mail from work. I realize now that I can't continue because it is too painful to recall. But one last note: The police never found me, the wall is back up, I am still washing ringworm off the cat, my toilet was never the same and we made it through the whole summer without air conditioning. My son learned to enjoy turkey sandwiches with plain lettuce. I never answer my doorbell, even when I am expecting company (just a quirk of mine). And I am in a 12-step program for "snooze-button addiction."

One of the very worst days of my life occurred nearly nine years ago. It was Aug. 18, 1988. I had a 5-year-old boy, a 2-year-old boy (not potty trained) and I was three days overdue with my third child (who turned out to be a 9-pound, 15-ounce girl). The boys were having a difficult afternoon (fighting, being cranky and just plain unhappy) and a college "friend" came over with her 5- and 3-year-olds. They stayed all afternoon and did not leave until nearly 5 p.m. She did not believe in having toys with small pieces in her home because they were too hard for her to pick up, so when her kids came to my house, they went wild with all of the blocks and Duplo, etc. My whole first floor was evenly strewn with toys that my own children did not take out!

Heck, my kids were too busy crying, but this did not phase the other mom, who kept chatting inanely for hours. She finally left (after I fed her kids a snack), and did not offer to pick up at all. When she was gone, I put the 5-year-old on the couch with a book, carried the screaming 2-year-old up the stairs to his crib, and crawled around picking up all the toys. I was too far gone to enlist the 5-year-old's help as I would on a normal day. I then proceeded to make dinner. My husband was late getting home (naturally). Oh, and add to this the fact that we had spent the whole summer having a master bedroom bath put in -- and it was supposed to be done in June, but here it was August and the cabinets were still sitting in the nursery. I went to bed totally exhausted, only to wake up a couple hours later in labor. Hard labor. I totally bypassed the early stage!

On the plus side, I did make it to the hospital in time, so I didn't have to clean up that mess!! And I had a healthy, very large daughter.

It was my son Jesse's sixth birthday and I had been planning his party for two weeks. Instead of trying to squeeze it in between soccer matches, church and other family weekend activities, I opted to have it on the Friday afternoon the kids had off from school. My husband swore he would work just half the day and so, confidently, I waved each mother off who offered to stay and help. "Oh, he'll be home soon," I said. "And besides, I think I can handle this, I used to be a preschool teacher." As if it were a badge of honor, I repeated this revelation until I was all alone staring at 10 restless 6-year-old boys.

It was past noon. There was no husband. The kids were ready for some games. Before starting the games, I explained that everyone was going to be receiving a party bag with a special prize, so I wasn't going to be giving out individual prizes for each game.

The first game was played and there was a winner. As I was getting ready for the next game, the winner demanded his prize. I reminded him of what I had said. He looked at me, hugged his chest, stuck out his lower lip and declared, "I'm not playing any more stupid games then." And off he huffed, throwing himself onto the couch.

After playing a couple more games (without the grouchy kid), everyone was ready to eat. Still no husband.

I lit the candles and the chorus began. Noticing the look on my son's face, I suddenly remembered. I had forgotten his one special wish for the day. He wanted cupcakes. For some unknown genetic oddity that he must get from my husband's side of the family, Jesse refuses to eat cake slices but loves cupcakes.

I told the boys they could play in Jesse's room for a few minutes while I "fixed" the cake. As I heard hysterical laughing emanate from the bedroom, the rush of a thousand clattering Lego pieces being emptied out of the bucket and the shriek of squeaking bedsprings, I hurriedly cut up the cake and put several pieces into foil cupcake molds.

The phone rang. It was my husband. Something had come up but he would be home as soon as possible. (Sure.)

Calling everyone back, I served up the square chocolate cupcakes with chocolate ice cream and punch. Everyone ate and then they wanted to open presents. As Jesse began opening up his gifts, a John Candy look-alike came up to me and said, "I forgot to tell you that chocolate makes me do it." I wasn't quite sure what "do it" meant, but I figured it wasn't good. He then asked where the bathroom was. After dashing him to the toilet, I returned to watch the rest of the gift-opening session. Soon, the boys were oohing and ahhing over what Jesse had received. I suddenly realized that the kid with the ominous chocolate malady was nowhere to be seen. I went searching for him. He was just emerging from the restroom. He scuttled past me. Something in me told me to go and check the toilet. It was backed up. I found out what "do it" meant.

As I ran to find the plunger, my son was crying, saying that everyone was opening his new gifts, playing with them and dismembering some of the more heroic of his new action figures. With plunger in one hand and the box of party bags in the other, I handed the bags out while Jesse, in secret-agent fashion, scooped up his precious booty, stuffed them under his shirt and ran to my bedroom to hide them.

I left the contented crowd to go plunge. As the last mother and son left, the plumber pulled up the same time as my husband.

P.S. Did I mention somebody wanted to see if goldfish could eat cake?
July 2, 1997

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