MAMA WITH A BLUE FACE

PROLOGUE

Mass Destruction

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“You cannot make it through this life without a sense of humor.”

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“DID THE CLOWN FART?” three-year-old Megan shouted in a church full of worshipers.

“Megan Elizabeth!” I gasped sharply and whispered, “fart is not a nice word.”  I was the most embarrassed mother on Planet Mommy.  Unmistakably, the air was heavily scented with the odor of sulphur and recycled cabbage.  Megan must think that elderly lady in front of us is actually a clown.

My face burned red as several parishioners snickered.

“BUT DADDY SAYS FART,” Megan informed me boisterously.

“Lower your voice,” I instructed Megan.

In an unnaturally low bass voice, like a cartoon character, Megan repeated, “BUT DADDY SAYS FART.”

The parishioners’ chuckles erupted into loud laughter.

My two oldest daughters’ chortles ignited and they were riddled with spasms.

Quivering with plugged-up giggles, Chrissy, my oldest, who is tall and thin with shoulder-length mahogany curls and alabaster skin, whispered into her cupped-hand to Katie Rose, “Katie, did you let out an atomic bomb?”

Indignant, Katie Rose’s chestnut eyes discharged sparks as she sputtered, “The smeller’s the feller.”

I noticed Father O’Malley, who sat on his kingly altar chair, tried unsuccessfully to hide his smile.  He crossed his lanky legs and picked imaginary lint off his kneecap as his shoulders vibrated slightly.  Father’s sky-blue eyes rested on Megan--then looked away quickly.

Why did I ever sit up front this close to the altar?  I must remember to get my head examined.

Even on stressful days, when I felt as if my head would roll right off from my shoulders; when I felt like Lucy in the chocolate candy-factory with the conveyor belt on high speed, or like the plate-spinners on the old Ed Sullivan Show, with that annoying music and way too many plates spinning, even then, I thanked God for my husband, Robert, and my daughters, Chrissy, Katie Rose, Megan and Molly.  I loved them dearly and my life would have been...well, boring without them.  For example, imagine attending Mass with a fourteen-year-old, an eleven-year-old and three-year-old twins.

We were celebrating 10:30 Sunday Mass and Megan, as usual, had difficulty sitting still and keeping quiet.  Molly, Megan’s twin sister, was good as always with her finger in her mouth as her big, blue-denim eyes observed everything like a skilled detective.

The crooked lady sitting in the pew ahead of us–who Megan mistook for a clown--turned to us and waved hello.  “What lovely girls!” she crooned.  The elderly woman had a wild, tightly curled permanent that had fried her pumpkin-colored hair, which stood out from her head like a tangerine halo.  She wore too much unblended make-up–red rouge circles on her apple cheeks and flaming orange lipstick, which bled from her lips in fine lines.  The fashion mishap sported oversized-hoop earrings, a loose blouse with huge polka dots in primary colors, and red and white striped, wide-legged pants.

The poor lady must have failing eyesight or maybe she doesn’t own a mirror.  I smiled kindly at the inelegant woman.

Megan became overly excited and said too loudly, “MOMMY!  WHAT IS THE CLOWN’S NAME?”

Embarrassed, I tried to quiet Megan, but she persisted, “MOMMY, DO YOU KNOW THE CLOWN?”  I prayed that the lady’s hearing was as bad a