Frantic Mom Dressed to Kill

"Mom," Maureen said, "How come you always write about everyone's fits but you never say anything about the way you act?"
"That's because I'm perfect," I answered. "Does someone who's perfect go storming up and down the hall, wearing a slip, holding a curling iron, slamming doors and yelling,
'Why do things like this always happen?' "
"Oh, that? I was nervous."
"It looked like a fit to me," Maureen responded.
"Yeah," Colleen, the actress, joined in. "If I put on a performance like that, you'd accuse me of thinking I was on stage. You can throw a fit as good or even better than Machaela."
"I'm not a big fit-thrower at all - compared to John," Machaela
added.
It is true I was on a rampage that morning, but I was beyond even my wit's end. I had been invited to speak at the mother-son Mass and breakfast for Patrick's school, Creighton Prep. I was honored to be asked but a bit apprehensive about what to say to such a large group of young men and their moms.
This engagement was scheduled after an unusually tumultuous week. I was living for the moment. And as each moment presented itself, if I was ready I handled it, and if I wasn't, I'd panic first, then somehow get through it.
On the morning of my speech, I felt "sort of' in control.
I had retrieved and collected my thoughts from the various dumping sites in my mind. I had figured out what I should wear and it was even back from the cleaners, and I had the kids all situated.
I had Patrick out of bed and had picked out clothes for him that I thought would be appropriate for the occasion.
All I had to do was get myself dressed. I was feeling almost relaxed.
"Chances are good that I'm going to get through this," I thought. No such luck.
My hair, which had looked fine and dandy for my previous day's events, probably also would have passed a grooming test if that morning it could have been touched up with my electric rollers. Otherwise, I would look as if I just removed the nylon stocking from over my head after an all-night spree of gas station holdups.
The fit began when I ran to Colleen's room and woke her up. "Colleen, you've got to help me. My electric curlers won't heat up and my hair looks horrible."
"Your hair doesn't look bad," she said, but she didn't even have
her eyes open.
"How can you tell? It's half set with hot curlers except they
aren't hot. Get the curling iron and come to my room."
"Calm down, Mom, and put on your dress while this thing heats up," Colleen said as she plugged in the curling iron.
"I can't calm down. I'm going to look awful and everyone will see me because I'm the speaker."
As I continued my ranting and raving, several little folks appeared in my room to see what was going on. Maureen ushered them out, saying, "Mom has a problem with her head."
In the meantime, Colleen was trying to curl my hair but it wasn't working. I had too much hair and too little time. Then Patrick came in half-dressed.
"How come you are not ready? You make me so mad," I said to him with blood-vessel-breaking gusto. "Gee, that is not a very nice way to talk to your son right before we go to a mom-son thing."
"Get out of here," I screamed.
"Dad's shirt you want me to wear is too small."
"What?" I flew over to the dad's closet, the curling iron flew out of Colleen's hand, and another shirt flew through the air to Patrick. "Make this one fit."
Later that day, when the speech was over and I was back at home breathing a sigh of relief, Maureen asked one of Patrick's friends who was at the breakfast how I did.
When he said I did fine, she wondered out loud: "Did anyone say
anything about her hair?"
November 2, 1988