I should have been wearing Jane parfum a couple days ago. It was a classic Jane moment, the morning of my son Jake’s football banquet, a banquet from 9 am to twelve noon.

I woke up just after 8 am and headed to kitchen to try to wake up. I also realized with banquet in less than an hour I had better prepare the meat dish which is what the ‘G’s’ were assigned, Jake’s last name being Gaskins.

I’d just bought a spiral cut ham so I cut most of the slices off the bone, and then warmed them with a brown sugar glaze. Delicious, yes. My culinary skills continue to astonish me. While ham is warming (I’m sorry, I can’t help but think of Napolean Dynamite’s ‘Tina, eat your ham’ every time I write ham) I encourage the boys in dressing and seeing it’s now nearly 8:30 am tell them to start hurrying, adding, that I don’t even know for sure where the banquet is, but I think–thought–it was in the school cafeteria where the games were played.

As boys dress I search email inbox, find email from three weeks ago about banquet but it only lists the name of a Catholic church. I mapquest Catholic church, discover it’s a half hour drive. I start trying to print the map and computer freezes. Reboot. It’s nearing 8:45 and I’m still not dressed, nor have we directions, nor have we ham.

Map is printing while I fling various articles on clothing on, and various lotions and potions on face. Jake is shouting that we’re going to be late. I’m shouting to fetch ham and get in car. Then I’m shouting to get map from printer. And then shouting for younger son to stop playing with Lego and get shoes and sweatshirt on.

Jake shouts he has ham (Tina!), map and is in car and he needs me in car now to drive as it’s nine and we’re late.

Son Ty has shoes no sweatshirt but he does have a lego cell he’s built. Good. But not great as he’s not ready and not in car.

I realize as I race up, down, up, down stairs looking for keys that I’ve had no coffee yet. Need coffee. Need coffee badly. Find keys buried beneath papers on desk. Race downstairs again and get in car. Shout something about coffee. No time, Jake says, we’re late. Nine o’ five. Late, late, late.

We’re just merging with freeway traffic when I remember, no gas, no gas at all. We can’t go five miles much less twenty-five on my empty tank. Off freeway, to filling station, dropping Jake at coffee stand oppposite end of parking lot. ‘Large nonfat vanilla latte’ I shout. What? he shouts back as cars behind us honk. Large latte, nonfat, vanilla.

I fill car. Grab Jake who has my precious coffee and start to merge with freeway traffic only to realize that pot lucks require you to bring your own plates and silverware. ‘Jake, we’ve no plates or silverware!’

Jake looks at clock. ‘Mom, we’re late. Coach says we can’t ever be late.’

‘Jake, don’t you want to eat your ham?’

We turn around, race to house, I run in and grab plates, and forks, race them to car, hand them to younger son. ‘Hold these, don’t let them break.’

‘We’re just taking them like that?’ Jake asks.

I know. I should have a cute basket for things like this but I never go to pot lucks. Last potluck was probably last decade.

I race back to house, search for basket find a Amazon cardboard box, grab that, race back to car.

Son Ty enquires about knives. We need knives, he says, to cut things. Yes. Run back to house. Shouldn’t be wearing heeled boots. Feet hurt from running. Head hurts because I haven’t had coffee yet. Clock says 9:15 and we’re still a thirty minute drive. Damn, damn, damn pot lucks. And why a three hour pot luck on a Saturday morning?

Drive fast. Very fast. Get to pot luck. Run inside. Jake delivers ham. Everyone pounces on it. I get in back of line with boys. Food is gone by the time we get through line. We didn’t need our plates and silverware. Paper and plastic provided. And there isn�t any food to eat anyway

I hate pot lucks. But I did have my coffee. Kids drank Sunny Delight. And I got to sit at the table with the priest.

I just thank my lucky stars the ham was a hit.

The bestselling novelist of the past twenty-five plus years, Danielle Steele, has something new on the market and it’s not a book. No, she is now such a legend, such a huge success, that she has a perfume with her name on it. You can buy ‘Danielle’ at most department stores and the ads in magazines have captured my imagination.

In the ads a sleek, slim, radiant Danielle wears a gorgeous dress with a wind machine blowing her hair (along with the pages of a recently finished manuscript) and the text is: Believe in Happy Endings.

I do.

And I love this ad and the idea of Danielle now being a perfume, along with the likes of Brittney, J.Lo, Liz Taylor, and others.

It’s given me some ideas, too. Something to shoot for. Something to work towards.

Someday when I’m more unlined and perhaps famous I’m going to have a perfume, too. Someday there will be a beautiful parfum named Jane.

The parfum Jane will be something incredibly powerful, and should only be worn when you want to live like Jane Porter.

Dab some Jane parfum behind the ears before you feed the waxworms to the gecko.

Dab a bit more Jane behind the ears as you chase the gecko’s loose crickets down the hall.

Dab Jane on your wrists to ensure that when you take out the garbage, the bag will split.

Don’t forget the unforgettable scent of Jane as your hard drive crashes.

Jane parfum is the idea parfum for a dinner of Velveeta Macaroni Shells & Cheese.

Jane will waft in the air as you clean up the partially blind puppy’s poops in the yard.

You want Jane on when you go to the gym and forget to shave your underarms.

Wear Jane. The Unforgettable Fragrance For All The Forgettable Moments In Life.

No, no. You are not neglected and forgotten. You are merely neglected.

My son Jake’s homework now is less frequently neglected but habitually forgotten.

Surely someone else remembers the big social studies map project he was working on, the one that was due last week, the one that we spent ALL Sunday doing, plus more work on Monday and even more on Tuesday. I had to head to Houston for Friday (followed by Las Vegas on Saturday) so I left here, certain Jake was in a good place, confident he was ready to shine, shine, shine.

And today after school I wait for him to hear about his magnificient mapping grade because it was a beautiful map, especially once he redid it on a poster board, and it had nineteen landforms, not six, AND a colorful key with creative names. A true work of art, a true statement of one’s skill and dedication.

Not to mention priorities.

You see, it wasn’t until I asked him today, Monday afternoon, how the map went over with his teacher when he choked out, ‘I never turned it in.’

Whhhhhhaaaaaaaaaat?!?!?

For those in the Montana state that couldn’t hear me shattering the crystal with my shreik….it was bad.

I’ve taken to my bed. With a pint of ice cream and I don’t know when I’m going to be up.

Well, actually I do. Tomorrow’s Halloween and I’ve helping my younger son Ty’s class party.

But until then I’ve holed up with a fascinating book, The Female Brain, because at least that brain–even flooded with all its chemicals and hormones–makes sense to me.

The glamour of my life overwhelms me. I live in a state of delerium. And this is why I do not blog more often right now. It is not because I am writing from sun up to midnight, it is not because I have endless mountains of laundry even though I have just done endless mountains of laundry, it is not the dishes and the driving to three sports, sometimes two sports and a Cub Scout meeting in the same night. It is not the excitement of online book chats or call ins to book groups.

Nor is it the homework that goes like this…

Sunday morning. 8:30 am

‘Jake, I don’t exactly understand your social studies report, the one that’s a big geography map project.’

‘Why not, Mom?’

‘Well, you’ve drawn the map the size of a postage stamp.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘And you’ve got to add 9 landforms–‘

‘You only *have* to do six landforms. The rest can be bodies of water.’

‘Right. But you need to illustrate your landforms with clip art, or color sketches, or pictures from magazines.’

‘Yeah.’

‘So how are you going to label and illustrate nine landforms–‘

‘Only six are landforms–‘

‘On a postage size map?’

‘The map’s bigger than that.’

The point is you’re not going to be able to include a waterfall, a butte, a geyser, a volcano–‘

‘I’m just going to do three mountains and a desert and something else.’

‘Jake. I used to teach social studies. I know what the teacher’s looking for.’

‘I know. We talked about it in class.’

Younger son shouts from couch in other room. ‘I’m hungry.’

I shout back, ‘get something to eat.’

‘Can you make me something? I’m watching t.v.’

Oh. My. God.

Deep breath. And another, Jane. One more deep breath to keep from screaming.

‘Jake, we want to go above and beyond what we’re asked to do. We want to not do the minimum, but really strive for excellence.’

‘Ok, Mom, got it.’

9:45 a.m. Jake redraws the map and brings it to me where I sit at my desk trying desperately to finish chapter 9. The book’s due in less than ten days and I’ve still got 250 pages to write. Not a problem. Feeling good, so calm, thrilled I gutted the book a week ago and started all over again, thrilled that I can model striving for excellence for my children.

Jake shows me his new map with all the intricate little wiggles and jiggles for capes, bays, atolls.

I look at the map he hands me with pride. It’s now the size of a credit card, or a Starbucks drink card.

I study it for all of ten seconds and then count to ten, and then count to twenty. ‘Um, Jake.’

‘Yes, Mom?’

‘How are you going to fit 9 landforms–six of them mountains and deserts and stuff like that–on this map?’

He looks at me with extreme love. ‘Mom, I just have to write small.’

Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?

Younger son screams from the other room. ‘Where’s my Pop Tart?’

I bite my tongue. Hard. So hard.

And then I scream.

I still think about trying to have one more baby. Insane, I know, completely nonsensical particularly when you look at the obstacles to having a baby in my ahem, early 30’s, and the stresses and issues in long distance relationships, but I’ve gotten to the point where I get that the kids really do grow up, and they become people distinct from me and as much as I love babies and toddlers I love my boys now so much, love their conversation and thought process and those precious little gems that come out of their mouths.

My older son mostly talks sports with me. Always has, always will. When he has something to say it’s invariably about his Fantasy football team, or a record set, or a news feature on someboy off the sports page.

My younger son talks and its like having Jim Carey crossed with Robin Williams in the backseat, and until recently, belted int the booster seat. My younger son isn’t like anyone else I know and I’ve shared some of his oddities with other moms and they were either shocked, or uncomfortable, or gently baffled. I was sharing his tidbits with maternal pride. I was thinking, ‘Isn’t he remarkable? Isn’t he interesting? Isn’t that so funny coming out of a 7 year old’s mouth?’ The other moms didn’t seem to think so. They seemed to think he was…I was…well, disturbed.

But of course we’re disturbed. I *like* us this way. I don’t want us to be normal. What’s the point of normal? For goodness sake, live outside the bell shaped curve. Find a sweet spot on the maverick monitor and embrace creativity, originality, individuality.

Although, I will say, there are times when my unique child makes even me a little nervous. I don’t know if it’s his vocabulary and his casual reference to ‘nuclear warheads’ or his fascination with rocks, lizards, bats and things that crawl between rocks, lizards and bats. I don’t know if it’s his painfully funny imitation of Michael Jackson’s spin and grab the crotch move. Because he’s seven, still only seven, but even when he’s at his most…unique…I laugh. He makes me laugh. It’s his deadpan delivery. It’s the pleasure he derives from shocking others. It’s his absolute comfort being whoever he is, however he is, in his own skin.

He’s how I always wanted to be. He does what I always wanted to do, and he does it young, and with confidence, and a crazy wink and smile.

I see my dad in him. I see myself in him. And I see trouble in him. But that just makes me love him more.

He’s so…not what I thought he’d be.

At three we had to call him Pegasus.

By four he’d changed his name to Robert George Porter, his uncle Rob’s name. He then spent a year wanting to wear my make up and lamenting the fact he wasn’t a girl.

At five he wanted to be a black rapper and wanted to know how to become black. When I told him he couldn’t, he wanted to know how he could have a black baby. He was also going to be the first d.j. that spun music with his feet. He used to show me how he’d put his feet on the turntable and you know, do that thing they do with the records, and his feet would just go back and forth, back and forth, and everybody would love it.

At five and a half he couldn’t do the K testing because all the words he knew how to write and spell were curse words and he knew it wouldn’t be acceptable. So he flunked the test rather than be inappropriate.

I’d go on but you’d all wonder just what kind of kid I was raising. And I’ve got to say, I don’t think I’m raising him. He’s raising me. Maybe that’s the best part of all. He’s taking me on this ride, this crazy adventure and I love it.

For example, yesterday my son Ty hugged me and returned to his room to play but then said from the doorway, ‘I just really love you a lot right now. I do. Every time I look at you I think how much I love you. And I’m not telling you this because I want to go to Toys R Us.’ He pauses. ‘But if you want to buy me something, that’s okay with me.’

What’s a mother to do?

Love the ride.