The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom by Robyn Harding Page A

“What?”
    “What could we do with Cameron that would
be fun?” I asked, in a voice tinged with desperation. “Just for a little while…
until the pizza comes.”
    “Umm… Play-Doh?”
    “How about Play-Doh, Cameron? Do you like
Play-Doh?”
    “Yeah…” he said hesitantly, dropping his
shoe to the floor. “I guess.”
    “Great!” I said enthusiastically. “Let’s go
play some Play-Doh!”
    I set the boys up at the kitchen table with
a large bucket of clay and various kitchen tools. Thankfully, they were
giggling contentedly when I took the phone into the hall and dialled Dominoes.
When I returned, I sat down between the two youngsters. This couldn’t be an
easy time for either of them. They were too young to really understand what was
going on with the whole Karen situation, but they must sense it. And in a way,
the tragedy across the street was having an enormous impact on them. It was
affecting the most important people in their universe: their mothers. I took a
deep breath and vowed to be patient and kind. “Nice work, Cameron,” I said
encouragingly. “And yours is really cool, too, Spencer.”
    “What do you think this is?” my son asked,
holding up his creation.
    “Umm…” I took in the small creature with
two legs, two tiny arms, and a long blue tail. “A kangaroo?”
    “Nope. Guess again.”
    “A crocodile standing up?”
    “Nope. Guess again.”
    “I give up.”
    “It’s Dad.”
    “Ohhhh…” I said, as if suddenly seeing the
similarities. “Does Dad have a tail?”
    “That’s poo hanging out of his butt.”
    I was on the verge of a reprimand when
Cameron burst out laughing. Well, at least Spencer was entertaining that sullen
little monster. I decided to let it slide. “Right,” I said. “Poo… yeah, of
course.”
    “Guess what this is?” Cameron asked, with a
gleeful grin.
    “Uh… a boy sitting on a giant toadstool?”
    “No!” He was practically breathless with
excitement.
    “Tell me.”
    “It’s my dad, with a giant fart cloud
coming out of his butt!”
    Spencer squealed and soon the two of them
were clutching their sides and rolling on the floor with laughter. I would have
to chastise them. Trudy took a hard line on inappropriate language, and I knew,
first hand, that she had an issue with the word fart . When their
laughing seizure had subsided, I spoke sternly. “Okay… that’s enough of that
kind of language.”
    “Fart is not a swear,” Cameron retorted.
    “Well, it’s still not a very nice or polite
word.”
    “But fart is just a plain old word.
What’s so bad about saying fart ?”
    “You know your mom doesn’t like you using
that word, Cameron.”
    “So… that’s just dumb. … Fart.”
    “Cameron…” I began.
    “Fart!” He screamed, much to Spencer’s
delight. “Fart! Fart! Fart!”
    “Pass wind,” I said helplessly. “Pass
wind.” The doorbell rang and I scurried to meet the pizza delivery man. If he
was bothered by the chorus of poo , fart and accompanying sound
effects emanating from the kitchen, he didn’t comment. Laden with two steaming
pizza boxes, I made my way back to the kitchen, pausing at the bottom of the
stairs to call up to Chloe’s room. “Girls! Pizza’s here!”
    Uh… uh… wanna make you sweat…
    “Chloe! Emily!”
    Uh… uh… wanna make you scream …
    “Girls! Please!” I hollered, suddenly
overwhelmed by the barrage of sexual innuendo coming from my daughter’s CD
player. Thankfully, it stopped. Now, if I could only turn off the sound of the
boys discussing their fathers’ toilet activities.
    I was in a fog during dinner, nibbling on a
piece of Hawaiian, consumed by my own thoughts. The children talked
incessantly, and no doubt rudely, but I managed to tune them out. I couldn’t
get Janet’s revelation about Karen’s condition out of my head. It made her
untimely death sadder still, and I fought to control my emotions in front of
the kids. But it had also increased my conviction that there was