If I had to play one more time, I would have hemorrhaged from my tear ducts. Every single time I played Chutes and Ladders, I landed on the chute that brought me to the bottom of the board while my opponent swiftly moved on to victory. It became the family joke: Mom sucks at children’s board games.

Unable to live with that reputation and in support of my physical and mental wellbeing we decided to teach the children to play Texas Hold’Em, a game not known for its near death experiences.

So I thought.

After we educated the kids the basic concepts of poker, we brought out the chips and began to play tournaments.

It was a little rocky at first. Nathanael tried to go “all in” with every hand. Elly still thought a flush had something to do with the toilet. Logan folded if anyone raised the bet regardless of the cards in his hand. Eventually we worked out some of the kinks and began to get serious.

Nathanael is incapable of maintaining a poker face. He wears his cards on his sleeve. When dealt a good hand, the child giggles and holds the cards to his lips; our cue to fold. However, we eventually discovered that his idea of a good hand is when he gets a six (because it is his age) and a nine (because it is Isaiah’s age) or other such nonsense.

One time I got dealt pocket aces and was certain to win since I was playing against Nathanael. Certain, that is, for a whole three seconds. Giggle Boy won with a pair of sixes in the flop to match the six in his hands. I HAD POCKET ACES AND LOST TO SOMEONE WHO STILL THINKS RED-BLACK-RED-BLACK-RED IS A WINNING COMBINATION!

A new facial tick was born.

You must understand that percentiles and statistics mean nothing in this family. Neither does skill. Probability leans the way of unskilled minors who spend half their time, unfocused, watching “Ed, Ed and Eddie” while at the table. It is the damnedest thing!

There is no bluffing these children. I held a deuce and an eight in my hand, off suit even, but I was low in chips and thought I could pull off a bluff and double up my cache. I was bold in my betting. I laughed aloud while they kept matching my raises and said things like “Do you really want to do this Elly? I’m just saying…I’d hate to see you lose like this.” She went all in, flopped a high straight on the river and left me applying pressure to my eyes in order to avert a massive loss of blood while she did her happy dance.

ARRRGH!

I would love to see Phil Hellmuth sit down at my kitchen table and play my brood. I am quite certain that after just a few hands, he would mutter a string of profanities and tie a tourniquet around his neck until lack of oxygen made him forget the whole event.

Then I would challenge him to a nice, long game of Chutes and Ladders.

I bet my entire remaining chip that I would win.

It was like a dream come true. I had a ticket to fly to Atlanta to see Andrea Bocelli in concert and I was beside myself with joy.

I put a great deal of thought and planning into my first solo adventure, choosing sophisticated outfits and womanly shoes, as opposed to my routine sweatpants and Keds. I had my hair fixed in an expensive salon. I had a manicure. I bought new lipstick and perfume, determined not to look like a country girl visiting the big city for the day.

I did not sleep a wink the night before my exodus. I took a long shower, set my hair in hot rollers, applied my new expensive makeup and waited for the alarm to wake Darren. It seemed like an eternity and I did not want my designer perfume to fade before I walked down the aisle of the airplane. I wanted to reek of Well-Traveled-And-I-Live-In-A-Loft-Overlooking-The-City woman.

As Darren dropped me off at the airport, I felt like Mary Tyler Moore throwing her hat into the air. I made it through airport security with plenty of time to spare so I purchased a huge Starbucks latte and a Glamour magazine and sat down at the crowded gate. I mindlessly flipped through the pages of the magazine as I sipped my adult drink and contemplated the grown-upness of me. It was so easy, at this point, to ignore the dull ache of my feet, which were unaccustomed to high heels.

Here I was, a mother of seven, traveling by air to see an Italian man sing in a language I could not comprehend. No one would glance at me and guess that the day before I wiped feces off my child’s bedroom wall and yelled at one of the boys to get the chicken out of the house. I even appeared calm despite my fear of crash landing.

Before I finished reading the article “Top Ten Ways to flirt with the Man Seated Next to You on the Plane”, they announced the last call for boarding over the intercom. I intentionally delayed my boarding until the last moment because that is what sophisticated, Well-Traveled-I-Live-In-a-Loft-Overlooking-The-City women do. I took my seat, near the wing of the plane, between one woman with a baby on her lap and another who was large enough to take up her space and most of mine.

There would be no flirting on this flight.

The flight was great. There was no turbulence; the child next to me was well entertained with finger foods and apart from for the large sneezes from the large woman on the other side of me (I think she had a reaction to my perfume) everything was perfect…until the super duper latte kicked in and I needed to use the rest room. This was something I had not planned for ahead of time. Should I leave my carry-on or take it with me? How does the toilet flush? Will there be water to wash my hands? What if the plane suddenly descends or takes a sharp turn?

I apologetically excused myself and made my way to the lavatory near the back of the plane. My feet throbbed as I passed two dozen rows of seats, but I smiled at everyone who happened to make eye contact with me along the way.

The restroom was much smaller than I had imagined. I tried to hurry so that no one would think that Well-Traveled-I-Live-In-a-Loft-Overlooking-The-City woman was pooping on an aircraft since that would just be so…uncity-like. I swiftly pulled up my pantyhose, flushed the toilet, washed my hands and smoothed out the front of my skirt. I checked out my appearance in the small mirror, pinched my cheeks for coloring and promptly returned to my seat.

The landing was perfect. The captain announced the balmy temperature and I squealed with joy on the inside as I stood to gather my carry-on bag. I heard some people giggling in celebration of the pleasant weather announcement in the rows behind me as I carefully squeezed into the line of passengers waiting to exit the plane. That is when I felt the tap on my sophisticated shoulder:

“Miss, it seems your skirt is tucked into your pantyhose. I thought you’d want to know” said the handsome Well-Traveled-I-Live-In-a-Loft-Overlooking-The-City man. That explained the giggling.

My hand instantly moved to my rear end, fully exposed by the captured hem of my sexy skirt. To make matters worse, I had chosen to wear my “comfortable” country girl/granny underwear.

With a beet red face and a quick yank of silky fabric, I transformed back to my identity of Country-Girl-Who-Stacks-Hay-In-a-Loft-Overlooking-The-Prairie.

I wore pants on the flight home.

Dear Lord,

Forgive me for panicking this morning when Nathanael asked me “What is that pink thing sticking out from the cat’s tummy?”

I really did believe, in that moment, that if I said the words “cat penis” all his innocence would be lost and he would immediately begin growing a moustache. I need him to be my little guy right now. He still looks at me with obvious adoration; not the scowl of a teenager who is more well versed in feline anatomy.

For all he knows it really is an outy belly button. Soon there will come a day when I don’t have to remind him that “Cat’s don’t like to have their belly buttons tickled”.

For now, just please understand that sometimes a mother just has to lie for a greater good.

Amen