Image Up Advertising & Design

4 OUR YUCAIPA | APRIL 2016 Mother of the Year, 2005 - 2016 By Courtney Fox Taylor My step-son Clint and his wife Samantha recently welcomed their first baby, Caleb Bruce Taylor, born January 12. I decided to be called Gigi (her mom snapped up Mimi before I did), not that he's calling anyone anything yet. In truth, he'll call me what he'll call me and I'll come running to anything. Not to brag, but he's pretty perfect. When my son Ben was born 16 years ago, he was a fright. He had been trapped during the journey and took the brunt of the contractions. He came out bruised purple and green and his eyeballs were red as the blood vessels had burst from the pummeling. His scream was ear-piercing, much like an awl, and should have been classified a deadly weapon. I loved him, of course, but not in that swooning way most new mothers love their babies — it was a deliberate process. He did grow on me and by the first month I was smitten. When Caleb was born we rushed to the hospital and waited in the hallway while the new family bonded in what is called the Golden Hour. "The best part about having a kid is they believe everything you tell them," I explained to Samantha's brother. "Eventually they find out that you lied about some pretty big things, but they get over it." Ben was there and smiled, nodding in agreement. I mentioned the obvious lies then said, "This one was the best, though. I had a friend on Facebook who found an app that he typed my name into and grabbed one of my photos then posted it on my page. When you pressed play, it looked like a national news report that announced I, Courtney Fox Taylor of Yucaipa, California, had been chosen as Mother of the Year for the United States of America. Ben was five and totally fell for it," I laughed. Then I turned to Ben, "Remember that honey?" "That wasn't real?" He was shocked. I froze. He really thought I was Mother of the Year? Even now, at the age of 16, he still believed that back in 2005 I had won Mother of the Year. I kicked myself for revealing the truth but it felt pretty good that it was even plausible to him. Now, if I had told him that I was Miss America, I don't think he would have believed that for 11 years. Or 11 minutes. People who lie about being 5' 3" and live in Ugg boots and sweats are clearly not in the running for any tiara. Which is fine. For 11 years he thought I was MOTHER OF THE FREAKING YEAR. Honestly, I thought I was a six at best, on the one to 10 Mother Scale. I make cookies from a tube of dough, brownies from a box, have five good meals that I rotate, sprinkled with Baker's and pizza. I went to most of his basketball games, although I did protest one entire season of travel basketball because I needed a break from the mediocrity. I didn't tell him that, though. Sharing the reason would have dropped me to a four. At baseball games, I was the mom who yelled, "Lean into the pitch!" after realizing getting hit by the ball was his most sure- fire route to first base. He got his share of spankings, time-outs, and when he talked back, a little Tabasco on the tongue. I was horrified to find out that people think it's child-abuse to do that now. Frankly, he started enjoying the bar of soap and since Tabasco is approximately food, I figured it was safe-ish. Birthday parties were tough since his birthday is Christmas Day. He had one in June when he turned four — it was a pirate themed party and I hired a pirate (not a real one, just a guy dressed like one — his name was Jerry and he was an accountant from Highland) who did magic tricks and made balloon animals. Most years we met my husband's family at Chuck E. Cheese on Dec. 23 and had the place to ourselves. Chuck E. Cheese is a strangely sad place at the holidays. When Ben was seven he gathered all his friends in the guest bedroom and told them they were going to be giving him a surprise party. He instructed them to wait 60 seconds then burst into his room and sing to him. After he had settled on his bed with a book and struck an unsuspecting pose, his friends obliged. I spied on the "party" from the next room and felt bad for him but impressed at the same time. I realized as I took pictures of Caleb in the hospital, I still hadn't made Ben's baby book. When I got home, I pulled down all the boxes and bags and tubs of photos that I had from Ben's birth to age five when film gave way to digital. It took four days just to sort the photos into chronological piles on the dining room table. Then I tossed duplicates and not-so-good pictures and started cutting and pasting onto scrapbooking paper. It's been two months and I have seven pages, four photos per page, completed. We're up to age One Week. The piles and piles of photos have become an overwhelming burden that I walk past, averting my eyes, every day. My husband misses the dining room table and asks when we'll see it again. At this pace, I estimated the time to get through those five years and predicted completion around Christmas, 2018. I'll give Ben his baby book for his 18th birthday. Maybe I should just shoot for Grandmother of the Year.

• Cover