By January of 2009, MidChix haunted my every waking moment, and I began searching high and low for funds. I needed $50,000 dollars and it was nowhere to be found. I sold some jewelry. I looked under the seats of the car. I pocketed bills that showed up in the lint screen. I cashed in the kitchen change jar. I consigned clothes. I substituted in the office at the school. I did everything I could think of short of pulling a Bernie Madoff.
True confessions. I actually contemplated the number of sexual favors that it might take to land a big fat loan from my supportive, but cautious husband.
Then one day, the light bulb went on. Didn’t I have a life insurance policy somewhere? I raced upstairs to the study and the file cabinet. Yes! There it was. Now technically, this wasn’t “my” money. My practical and organized (yet prudent and possibly sexually deprived) spouse, had realized when our fourth child arrived well before our oldest turned 6, that he would be TOAST if I ever took up sky-diving. Nevertheless, I felt, at this point, that I had earned that money. I mean for heaven sakes, it was there to pay some poor slob to fill in for me if I was dead. I mean, if I was dead wouldn’t that make him sad and he’d do anything to make me feel better…I mean make him feel better…I mean make me feel so good I wouldn’t be dead?
Okay, okay. I decided that I had earned the money, because I had ended up being the poor slob bringing up our four kids (later 5) while he was working his cute little investment banking butt off providing for the five kids that we would need to pay some poor slob to take care of if I died.
Fast forward. I didn’t die. The kids got older. (Even the youngest one.) We moved to Denver and my practical hard-working husband continued to be practical and hardworking, but available enough that he learned how to hold down the fort.
So on a wing and a prayer, I pointed simultaneously to him and our 14 year old daughter (while glancing meaningfully at her little brother) and announced, “If I die, you’re it!”
After returning the rescinded Mother-of-the Year Award to the proper authorities, I cashed in my life insurance, hired the software developers, and decided to live the dream.
So far, so good. But if you ever see me outside in a lightning storm, please make sure the wine glass I am holding doesn’t have one of those metal doo-hickeys hanging from it. And in the meantime, Cheers!