Chapter 1
Every superhero has an origin.
That's what Martin says, and since he's thirteen, short for his age, and somewhat of a geek, I'm tempted to believe him.
OK, so here goes-for the first time I am about to reveal...
The Origin of Super Mom. (That's me.)
To tell the truth, it's a little embarrassing. I wasn't put into a rocket and sent to Earth by my parents just as my home planet exploded. I wasn't given a special ring by visiting aliens. I wasn't bitten by a radioactive spider.
No, it wasn't anything nearly so glamorous; my beginnings are quite humble. I was merely the innocent victim of a Horrible Swiffer Accident.
It all began on a bright, sunny Tuesday morning. Right away you can tell that this doesn't fit in with other superhero origins, or so Martin says. Most origin stories take place at night, usually in a laboratory or a dark alley. And nearly all are accompanied by really dramatic thunderstorms.
But no. My story, my origin, began on a weekday morning during a commercial break for the Today show. On the floor. Of my bathroom.
It was a typical school day. Kelly and Martin were shuffling through the kitchen like zombies while I nipped at their heels, making peanut-butter sandwiches, signing permission slips, and shepherding them out the door just in time for the bus. Then I collapsed on the sofa with my second cup of coffee and caught a few minutes of Katie and Matt.
Now, this is my favorite time of day. The only time when I have a few moments to myself, the only time I can just relax and let my mind take me places no one else wants to visit with me anymore. Sometimes I allow myself a glimpse into the future, but more and more these days, as my children are growing up and away, I find myself in the past-when my children were small and soft and perfect, when my hand reached down, not up, to smooth a lock of hair.
So on this morning of my origin, I settled in on the couch and sipped my coffee and turned on the TV. And there was Katie Couric interviewing Adam West for some cheesy Batman reunion movie. I giggled at all the old film clips-you know, Adam West never really looked that good in tights, even back in the sixties. He had a serious case of man boobs.
But then the next thing I knew, I was following my memory down a sidewalk full of cracks and pits-the sidewalk in front of our old house. I was running after Martin, who was running after Kelly. And he was in his Batman "costume"-a cape I made out of an old pillowcase. He used to wear that thing all the time; he would have slept in it if I hadn't been convinced he would choke to death. He was so cute in that cape, all brave and serious.
So in my mind I was chasing Kelly and Martin down this sidewalk. But where were we all running? To the ice-cream man? Away from some horrible monster? Were we late? Early? Or just having fun? Even as I was following them in my memory, so real I could see the faded checks on the pillowcase, smell the fresh asphalt on the road, I was wishing I could remember. Sometimes it seems so sad, the parts of their childhood I've forgotten. Sometimes I look at them now-big and sullen, hiding behind the awkward mask of adolescence-and I can't remember what they looked like when they were my babies.
But I shook the cobwebs from my brain, took another sip of coffee, and concentrated on the television, chuckling at a very old, very paunchy Adam West trying to wedge himself into the Batmobile. I think he got stuck because right away they cut to a commercial. Then the phone rang and it was a telemarketer and I had some fun with her, sobbing that my husband had just died and I was getting ready to go to his funeral so it wasn't the best time to talk about lowering my interest rates. And all of a sudden my favorite time of the day was over. Just as fleeting, just as fragile, as childhood itself.
And so to work. I put my coffee cup in the dishwasher, gave the counters a final wipe, and headed upstairs to the bathroom. Where I was confronted by a Stain of Unusual Origin.
It was in the middle of the floor, half on, half off the bath mat. It was purplish brown. It was disgusting.
I dropped down on all fours, my nose to the ground, sniffing like a bird dog.
"Hmmm," I said, tasting it, smacking my lips like the professional I was. "Not ammonia. Or salt. Maybe carbon-based, with a little red dye number two? Definitely not Preparation H."
Which left a variety of options, since this is the only bathroom in the house and we all have to share. I ticked off the usual suspects: lip gloss, Vaseline, hair dye, nail polish, mouthwash, soda, chocolate milk, foundation, eyeliner, model paint, melted crayons, exploded pen, petrified candy bar, blood. Finally I grabbed a sponge and tried to remove it with plain old water. Optimistic, I know. But you have to try.
Nothing. So I took the bath mat downstairs and threw it into the washer, then grabbed my trusty Swiffer and went back for the linoleum.
Now, I consider Swiffer the greatest invention in modern housecleaning history, right up there with treated dust cloths and flushable toilet-bowl wipes. I have a special closet stocked with all of my favorite tools, and the Swiffer has the place of honor, next to my lightweight foldable stepladder.
I studied the stain from all angles, positioned my trusty Swiffer, pulled the lever back, and released one quick stream of cleaning fluid. It hit right in the middle of the stain and then I Swiffered, gently yet vigorously. I stepped back to survey my handiwork.
The stain was still there.
I frowned. I released three long streams of fluid, Swiffered less gently, more vigorously, then looked again.
The stain was still there. It hadn't even faded. It had, in fact, darkened and spread.
I dropped to my knees again, sniffing, analyzing. Definitely not makeup or soda or crayons. Paint would have faded. Blood...it didn't look like blood to me. But just in case...
I ran to get a bottle of bleach, sponging some on the stain. No improvement at all.
By now I was on a mission. No stain had ever defeated me before. And I wasn't about to let this one get away.
I trotted to my closet and grabbed every cleaner I owned: Pine-Sol, Industrial Strength Windex, that new orange cleaner I bought from an infomercial, as well as old-fashioned Borox and Clorox and even Lava Soap. I sprayed and scrubbed and wiped and dabbed; the stain didn't budge. And soon it was obvious that the stain was stronger than any one individual cleaner. It was also obvious that if I didn't hurry up and get going, I would be late for work.
It was not obvious, at least to me, that I'd forgotten to turn on the exhaust fan.
I had one last chance to eradicate this vile, dastardly stain. I was angry, hot, light-headed, and late. So I did something I'd never done before. Something I'd only heard whispered about at PTA meetings or in secluded aisles at the grocery store-one of those Suburban Legends.
Little did I know I was about to become the stuff of legend too. For what happened next is It. How I came to be. The origin of my superhero-ness.
I poured everything-all the bleach and Pine-Sol and Borox and Clorox and even the Lava Soap-into the Swiffer reservoir. Then I aimed, pulled the trigger, and fired an unknown number of rounds at the stain. I kept firing, my finger growing numb as the stain finally weakened, gasped, yet still clung to life. I Swiffered and Swiffered until my arms took on a life of their own, until my head spun and the room blurred and all of a sudden the flowers on the wallpaper came to life. They leaped off the wall, grabbed petals, and started singing "Ring Around the Rosy" as they circled me. I screamed and dropped my Swiffer, inhaling a swift, sharp plume of the most powerful cleaning formula heretofore unknown to man...
And then I passed out.
I don't know how long I lay there, although I do remember thinking I'd better clean the bottom of the toilet with a toothbrush, as from my perspective-flat on my back-things were looking a little dingy.
But I couldn't move, couldn't get my body to work right. For a moment or two I tried. I sent determined messages to my legs, arms, head, urging them to move. But they refused, pinned to the floor by unseen chains.
And I continued to hallucinate. I fell into a deep well of images and thoughts: The daisies from the wallpaper were there, still dancing and singing; Adam West and his man boobs were roaring past in the Batmobile-he laughed, then paused to give me a knowing wink; even the stain, which now looked like a huge jellyfish floating in the sky, danced and wiggled its hips. The air was so thick with chemicals-pine and orange and bleach and ammonia-that I gasped and wheezed until I gave up and let the fumes invade my lungs.
Then the flowers changed their tune, their Munchkinesque voices starting in on "The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze"-the song I used to sing to Martin and Kelly when they were babies. "He flies through the air, with the greatest of ease, the daring young man on the flying trapeze ..." and I was flying-flying down a familiar sidewalk, chasing after Martin and Kelly, Martin's cape billowing out behind him, Kelly's pigtails doing the same. The sidewalk was endless and grew wider as we ran, the children giggling while I shouted for them to watch out, look both ways before you cross that street! Hold hands if you're going to the park! Doesn't anyone have to go to the bathroom? And all the while they kept laughing and running as I chased them, my arms outstretched, waiting to catch them if they fell. Then they grew bigger and bigger and stopped laughing; they just kept running away until Martin's cape flew off and hit me square in the face so I couldn't see them anymore. I couldn't see if they were all right. I couldn't see where they were going, and I was falling, falling-falling off the trapeze. The daring young man's hands reached out to me. I tried to grab them, only he turned into Martin and Kelly. We all reached out to each other and...and...
"Mom?"
I landed hard on the bathroom floor. I tried to sit up but hit my head on the toilet bowl and fell back down again.
"God! Mom? Are you all right? Mom?"
I opened my eyes and blinked. Kelly's face was looming over me, so pale that the tiny freckles on her nose stood out like flecks from a copper penny. Her eyes were enormous; she looked like she was about to cry.
"Honey? Honey-oh, ohhhh..." I tried to sit up again, but my head was throbbing.
"Martin! She's OK! Martin!" Kelly shouted in my ear.
"Sshhhh," I whispered, managing a brave smile. "Just help me up, all right?"
She put her arm under me and helped me to my feet, so gently I had to stop for a minute and stare, wondering who she was and what she had done to my fifteen-year-old daughter.
"Mom?" Martin ran up. He rubbed his eyes with his sleeve and looked so young and frightened, I wanted to hug him. But I couldn't; my body ached and throbbed and felt alien to me. There was a moment when I wasn't sure if I remembered how to use my legs.
"What time is it, sweetie? Why are you back so early? Why aren't you at school?"
"It's four thirty," Kelly replied.
"What?" My legs scrambled beneath me. "Four thirty? Son of a-! But I missed work! I missed the whole day! What happened?"
"When we came home from school you were passed-out."
"Yeah. You were covered by all sorts of towels and empty bottles and stuff. What happened, Mom? Been on a little cleaning binge?" Martin tried to laugh but his eyes looked scared.
"I don't know...I just...wait...the stain! Is the stain still there?" I tried to turn around, but Kelly and Martin kept steering me toward my bedroom.
"Mom, you need to lie down," Kelly insisted. "Should we call a doctor?"
"I don't need to lie down. Apparently I've been lying down all day. Oh, jeez. I need to call work. They'll kill me- Hand me the phone."
"Just wait a few minutes. The fumes were pretty strong in there. Are you sure you're all right?"
"Yeah, you know, those chemicals can really alter your brain waves. Were you trippin'?" Martin looked a little too interested.
"Was I what?"
"You know. Trippin'. I mean, you inhaled a ton of chemicals, you know. So what did you see? Talking pigs? Rainbows? Bugs?"
"Dancing flowers," I replied, easing into bed.
"Dancing flowers? Cool! What else?"
"Adam West in the Batmobile. You wearing that old cape you had when you were little, remember? And Kelly had pigtails. Oh, and a big jellyfish."
"Wow! This is so great! Batman? Really? Did the jellyfish talk?"
"Martin"-Kelly folded her arms across her chest and shook her head-"Martin, she's obviously sustained major head trauma. I'm going to call Dad."
"No!" I almost fell out of bed. "No. Kelly, honey? I don't think we need to call your father. I'm fine, really I am. I just got a little dizzy from all the fumes and I must have passed out. But I'm fine now. Really I am. Fine." I plastered a big, comforting Mom smile on my face and nodded. But I wasn't fine. My limbs and joints felt stiff and heavy, my head was pounding, my eardrums hurt. And it seemed like my blood was boiling inside my veins, I felt so hot beneath my skin.
But the last thing I needed was a visit from my ex, Doctor Dan. I would take a vision of Adam West in ill-fitting Spandex over that, any old day.
"I think we can manage just fine, honey. But could you make me some tea? Maybe some toast?"
My daughter hesitated at the door, her face still pale and young, and I had a quick glimpse of her as a child, always so serious, her face pinched and solemn, her gray eyes wide and wary.
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Reprinted from Confessions of Super Mom by Melanie Lynne Hauser by permission of Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Copyright © 2005 by Melanie Lynne Hauser. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced without permission.