With a Song and a Prayer

By Jennifer Quasha

Stress should be a powerful driving force, not an obstacle.
~Bill Phillips

One morning, back when my daughter Gigi was two and my only child, I was doing dishes in a cloud of self-pity and exhaustion, while thinking about what it takes to be a Great Mom. I had no close friends in town, since we had just moved recently, and I was lonely.

I was in dreamland about this new life until one of those thoughts, seemingly out of nowhere, zapped through my fog.

Gigi's preschool parent-teacher conference. It was today. It was this morning. It was in twenty minutes.

I looked at my watch and then the clock on the wall, hoping one of them was wrong. I had two thoughts: I am never going to get there. I have to get there.

The facts weren't good. Gigi wasn't allowed to be at the conference, and I had no babysitter.

I called my mom who lived nearby. No answer.

I called my best friend from high school who lived twenty minutes away. After her machine answered I hung up. She lived too far away.

I stared out my window, desperate for an answer.

I was still in the getting-to-know-you phase with the other preschool moms. And I didn't know our neighbors.

As my eyes focused, I saw Mister Song, the kind Vietnamese man who mowed our lawn who we also knew through church. The same church where Gigi's preschool was.

"Mr. Song!" I yelled over the leaf blower. He looked up, saw me and turned off the machine.

"Yes, Mrs. Jennifer," he replied.

"Mr. Song, would you do me a favor?"

"Yes, Mrs. Jennifer."

"Can you come with me for the next little while and sit in my car with Gigi?"

I rambled an explanation that must have made me seem like I was an alien that had dropped suddenly onto Mr. Song's planet.

Moments later Mr. Song, Gigi and I were buckled into the car.

I screeched to a stop in our church parking lot with a minute to spare.

I handed Gigi a bag of Goldfish and a board book, and looked at Mr. Song.

"Mr. Song. Gigi." I spoke to them like soldiers. Like I had some control over what was about to transpire. "I will be back in twenty minutes."

Gigi looked at Mr. Song, then back at me, her face calm but confused. I looked back at Mr. Song, who nodded. I said officially, "Thank you, Mr. Song."

Within two minutes I was sitting quietly and calmly across from Gigi's two preschool teachers who had been co-teaching at this preschool for over twenty-two years. They were similar to an old married couple, speaking for each other, interrupting, and feeding off of each other, but in a wonderful loving way.

Over the next twenty minutes, they told me how well adjusted and happy Gigi was. That Gigi was a lovely girl, she had many friends, and that she was a pleasure to have in the classroom.

All I could think about was how they didn't know that Gigi was outside in our car with Mr. Song. How on earth was it possible that she was well adjusted? It was clear to anyone who really knew that I was not capable of this motherhood gig.

After our allotted time was over, I shook their hands, said, "Thank you. Thank you so much for taking care of my daughter so well."

Then I ran back to the car.

It was like time had stood still. Mr. Song and Gigi were in their same seats, facing the same way, except the goldfish were gone and Mr. Song had a huge grin across his face.

"How'd it go, Mr. Song?" I asked, completely and utterly relieved at the sight.

"Just fine, Mrs. Jennifer."

I looked at Gigi. She was smiling too.

"Mr. Song, thank you so much. Thank you so, so much."

Once back home I unbuckled Gigi and took her out of the car.

Mr. Song got out of the car and strapped back on his leaf-blowing machine again.

"Thanks again, Mr. Song," I said.

I shut the door to the house and wondered just how other moms pull off this Motherhood job.

 

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