Bizarre Maternal Coincidence

Both my mother and mother-in-law are having surgery tomorrow. Talk about a maternal coincidence.

"You'll be just fine," I told my mom on the phone all the way from New Hampshire while tucking the boys into their bunk beds tonight. "Just don't think you're going any where on me, okay?"

Tomorrow at 8 a.m. EST a cardiologist will insert a flexible tube into her heart and destroy the spots that are to blame for her recent heart rhythm problems (a.k.a. abnormal, dramatic spikes in her heart rate).

My rational mind tells me I shouldn't worry. Catheter ablation is a relatively fast, simple procedure. Thank you WebMd. Some patients even return home within hours of its completion.

My panicky, ever pessimistic mind tells me that there's a slight risk of outcomes I can't even bear to type the letters of here and now. Outcomes that simply cannot occur. It's best to put thoughts like these out of your mind, especially when the subject is your mother. How could I not worry about her? She's my mother, my maker, for Christ's sake.

Meanwhile, in an operating room all the way across the Atlantic Ocean in England my mother-in-law will become the recipient of a brand new knee. Her long-time chronic pain will be lifted, replaced by a three-month long recovery. Hopefully, with physical therapy behind her, she should walk pain-free again, without bone scraping against bone. She might even be able to keep up with her five grandchildren (ages 6, 3, 3, 2 and 1.5) once again.

Focusing on getting all three kids out the door to get The Lawyer to his third day at his new school on time tomorrow should take my worried mind off our moms. Tomorrow I run around like an over-booked, underprepared modern mom. One who is chauffeur, chef and courtside Jr. NBA fan. When did I become such a hopelessly busy, hopelessly uncool mom dork? Fitting in time to write tomorrow is pretty much a joke. So is my one-time status as someone who had a clue about life outside of mom-dom.

Here's a quick update on The Lawyer, who attended his new school on his own for the first time today.

"I loved it," he told me when I picked him up after his full 6-hour school day. He smiled bashfully, as if admitting that he actually dug the place that he "never wanted to go to in the first place."

His bubbly math teacher, who looks like an older Maggie Gyllenhaal with shorter hair, told me The Lawyer completed all of his word problems correctly. Not bad when you consider that math is exclusively taught in Spanish. "He was enthusiastic and got along just fine," she said. "He already knows his numbers in Spanish. He breezed right through."

His only complaint wasn't about the kids or the classes. "The food stinks, mom. It's so healthy it's gross. I hope you didn't pay for a whole month of hot lunch. I won't eat it again. I can't. No way!"

It could be worse. The school's hot lunch menu makes my home cooking look like perpetual Hamburger Helper, so what's he bitching about. Students can even choose vegetarian options that actually taste like food, not like cardboard. At least that's the word on the black top.

My brain is fried. Nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, on The Lawyer's hyper healthy school menu is fried.

There's a swarm of rice flecks below the kitchen table I have a date with. Someone has to clean up after the picky little fingers that flung them there on purpose.

Please put out the good thoughts for moms squared. I'll keep you updated.