Smotherhood (1 of 2 free samples)

DEDICATION To My Family--Grif, Mallory, and Chloe

PROLOGUE

"Most of us become parents long before we have stopped being children."

--Mignon McLaughlin

"Why can't I ride my bike in the street by myself?"

Her entire body pleaded with me. Even the mismatched shirt stained with red juice, the oversize T-shirt skirt, and the purple plastic leopard-printed flip-flops seemed to be chiding me, begging me to give in.

"Because it's not safe," I said, rewrapping the wet baby in my arms in her bath towel. My head pounded from too little sleep.

"My mom lets me do it," snorted Mallory's little friend, who had wedged herself halfway inside the front door of our house to join the debate. "It's really okay," she said, smugly cocking her head to keep her loosely fitting bike helmet from slipping off her tiny head. Clearly, at six years old she knew it all.

"Well, I'm Mallory's mom and it's not okay for her! She's too young. Four is too young."

Baby Chloe started to cry. I wrapped her tightly in the towel, probably too tightly.

"But, Mommy, it's not fair. I don't like you, you're mean!" For emphasis, she stomped her purple leopard-print plastic shoe on the hardwood floor and curled her small hands into fists, striking the air between us. Stomp, stomp, stomp, went the little foot. Punch, punch, punch, went the little fists. "You have to come outside with me," she said, crossing her arms and looking up at me defiantly while blinking back tears.

"I can't. I've already explained that to you. Daddy is out and I'm taking care of the baby. I have to dress her for bed and feed her."

I was jiggling Chloe on my hip to keep her from crying and rubbing my temples with my free hand to keep myself from crying.

"Then you're not my mother anymore!" she screamed, leaning forward with her hands stretched behind her back as if she might take off. In contrast with her behavior, her pageboy haircut, big brown eyes, and full pink lips made her look as sweet as Strawberry Shortcake.

This is when I snapped. It was sudden, as it always is. I forgot that I was talking to two children who couldn't read, let alone understand the concepts of pedophiles and hit-and-runs. I bent down and beckoned the two girls to come closer. I smiled demurely with a slight tilt of my head for emphasis and spoke softly: "Girls, what would you do if a car full of strangers pulled up and one of them had a gun?" I improvised the shape of a gun with my free hand. "Or a knife?" I made a cutting motion across my neck with my free hand. "What would you do then?"

They both look wide-eyed into our cul-de-sac with its manicured lawns and pristine, freshly painted homes. Welcome flags fluttered in the wind beneath trendy awnings and above fancy iron railings. The only strangers who ever drove down our street were house-hunting or lost. But they didn't know that.

"Well, okay then," the neighbor girl said and turned, no doubt excited to tell her mother about my breakdown.

"I guess we better close the door, Mommy," Mallory said quietly, her head lowered. "We don't want the strangers to come in."

"No, we don't, Baby," I said, pulling her into my hip and stroking her hair. "No, we don't."

As a television journalist, I capture some of life's most fantastic adventures and deepest tragedies. Over the wild ride of the past sixteen years, I might have thought I've seen it all. But it wasn't until I became a mother that the real life-learning started. I now see everything tempered through my children's eyes, including myself--and it's not always a pretty picture.

My kids make me crazy, but in many ways they also make me better.

Smotherhood (1 of 2 free samples)

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