On the best of days, I have little patience and generally go to bed hoarse from all the yelling I do. There are so many things I could do better, but I generally don’t. Sometimes, it’s because I’m overwhelmed with kids and job and house and volunteer stuff. Sometimes, it’s because I’m lazy. Sometimes, it’s because I just can’t muster up any enthusiasm for the boring minutiae that is so important to the elementary school set. My kids are fed, usually clean (or at least able to pass the smell test), and they’re still alive at the end of each and every day. My yardstick for good parenting isn’t long, but it does exist.

But it’s not laziness or boredom or the overwhelming-ness that is motherhood which is making me suck as a parent. It’s the cancer.

How do you tell your kid that you can’t listen to yet another rendition of the entire Frozen soundtrack because you’re too busy researching when your hair is going to fall out?

How do you respond to your kindergartener when he tells you that if you lose your eyelashes, he won’t be able to love you anymore?

How do you prepare them for the scariest thing you have ever gone through when you’re too scared to prepare yourself?

I’m an adult with a pretty good life. I love my family, I have wonderful friends, a good job and a nice home (at least on the outside; don’t you dare walk in the door if the cleaning lady hasn’t been there within the last 48 hours). And I’ve been knocked on my ass by my diagnosis. Even knowing that at the end of it all I’m going to be fine and cancer-free and rocking a brand-new, perky rack, there are still times when I want to wallow and freak out.

My kids are still kids. They’re almost 8 and soon to be 6, and none, or very few of their friends, know what cancer is. I want to go back to January when my kids didn’t know what it was either. When they weren’t asking when my hair was going to fall out or if I was going to lose my breast. Or if I’m going to die.

They have been reassured time and again that I’m going to be fine, but to be honest, as much as the surgery and the ensuing complications sucked, chances are, the worst is still ahead of us.

I’m going to lose my hair. And probably my lunch. And I can make jokes about not having to shave or wax, but it’s going to really, really suck. Not just for me. But for them.

As a parent, you want to protect your kids from the bad, scary, sucky things in life. There is nothing I can do to make the next part of this suck any less for them. It’s going to be hard for them to spend the summer with a mom who probably won’t be able to take them to Six Flags half a dozen times. The mastectomy and axillary node dissection have ruined my bowling arm so that summer favorite is out. Movies will probably still be on the list of things to do, unless I’m too nauseous or exhausted to get out of bed. In no way will this be our best. summer. ever.

However, since the worst hasn’t happened yet and is still a few weeks away, I am trying, in my lazy, overwhelmed, unenthusiastic way, to help them take away fun memories of this time. How do I do that?

Let them play with my boob.

My prosthesis is a source of neverending entertainment for them. Stereotypically, my boys seems to enjoy playing with it more than my daughter, but they all find it hysterical. Our morning mantra before getting in the car has changed from “put on your shoes, grab your backpack, let’s go” to “put on your shoes, grab your backpack, find my boob, let’s go.” And it cracks them up every time.

My boob is made of some sort of Tempur Pedic material, covered in stretchy lycra-like fabric. And it is apparently the perfect size for paddleball. Or a game of catch. Or pass the parcel. As long as they keep it away from food, the bathroom and the cat, I’m OK with them playing with it. I’d rather they didn’t invite their friends to join in on the fun, but as a family activity, playing with my boob is fine by me. Because I can’t stop the next part from sucking, but I can make this part fun.

I’m sure there are some that will say that allowing them to play with my boob is inappropriate and I’m a crappy mom for ever allowing them to even know that I have a fake boob. You know what? I don’t care. When my kids are laughing because my husband is playing paddle ball with my boob, it means in that moment they’re not afraid of what’s going to happen to me or how it will affect them. Those moments are all I want for Mother’s Day this year.

Happy Mother’s Day!

MLV