The Mom Bomb

“Mom, why didn’t you want to be something when you grew up?” my six-year-old son Ben asked out of the blue.

I attempted to dodge the unintentional ego bomb, but it hit me squarely. Right in the heart.

I turned to see his brown eyes peaking out from underneath his cowboy hat as he tightened his spurs. This was an important question to a pistol-packing boy who’s sure his resume will one day include the title of Wild West Sheriff.

I sputtered and stammered like an old Edsel trying to turnover. “Um …well…hmm. “Actually I’m the most important thing in the world. I’m a mommy,” I replied in a voice that sounded like I’d just taken a hit of helium.

What I really wanted to do was whip out my portfolio and do a little song and dance about all the awards I had won during my career — yes, little Ben, mommy has a career — as an advertising copywriter. What I really wanted to do was run to the closet and dig out the box of old business cards that have ‘Vice-President’ printed right there in real ink under my name.

But I knew that it would’ve meant zilcho to a little guy who thinks a job is only justified if you can dress up like it for Halloween.

For the record, I do whole-heartedly believe that being a mom is the world’s most important job. Truly. It’s just that I have a smidge of a competitive streak, one that seems perfectly suited for the ad industry.

I blame it all on my childhood. I was raised in a game-playing family. From board games to water Olympics in the backyard pool, my older brother Ron and I have always loved a little friendly competition. In fact, it wasn’t long ago that as a grown man and father of three, he actually suffered bodily harm in his attempt to beat the clock, and me, in a game of Gestures. As the timer ticked he spotted a prop across the room and in his quest to hurdle the loveseat he bruised a kidney.