‘Pride Goeth before a Crock Pot Fall’

by More.com Editors

‘Pride Goeth before a Crock Pot Fall’

The Mediocre Mom is still mediocre. I have plenty of material; even though, there are no blogs to prove it. I’ve just become a mediocre blogger, too.


But it’s time for that to change. Thanks to a falling crock pot, I have now returned to prose.


Here’s what happened …


On a recent school morning, I paused in the chaos of herding the kids from the house to the school bus. I paused because I felt it necessary to praise myself.


I got everyone’s attention as I stood in the middle of the kitchen and announced that weeks into the school year I was still successfully packing two school lunches every day. Not one cafeteria meal had been purchased. Not one lunch had been forgotten. Not once did I lack the food necessary for two complete meals.


I ordered my family to give me a round of applause, which they did – only to get things moving again. So off we went, my back proudly patted and my kids to the school bus.


Upon my return from the bus stop, I stepped onto my stage for an encore performance. I would wow my audience, The Mediocre Dad, by starting dinner. That’s right – dinner. At 7:15 a.m.


You see, I had been doing so well that I even had all the fixings in my fridge for a crock pot dinner. Yeah, damn well.


I pulled out my ingredients and dragged a chair across the kitchen floor. The crock pot is stored on the top shelf of my pantry, and I needed a boost.


Unbeknownst to me, the crock pot’s cord had become entangled with its neighbor, another crock pot. (Yes, even in cooking I take the easy way out. Don’t judge me.)


So I got not one, but two crock pots in a single yank. They both crashed down, bouncing off my shoulder along the way. One shattered. The other proved more durable. But the largest shard of all was my ego, which The Mediocre Dad was now sweeping into a dust pan.


I stepped down from the chair and my pedestal all at the same time. Pride goeth before a crock pot fall.


What kind of mother brags about feeding her children? What kind of mother thinks she’s all that for simply having dinner ingredients in the house? What kind of mother feels these are such incredible accomplishments that they necessitate a pronouncement and resounding applause?


A Mediocre Mom, that’s who. And that’s who I still am.