Chapter 1 : Part 2

Catch a Rising Star: A Novel
by Tracey Bateman

(Page 2 of 5)

See, words like potty are what separate the thirty-year-old mommies from those of us who haven't taken the maternal plunge - for one reason or another.

"I can't help it," I whine grumpily. "It's a lot itchier than Mother Goose or the dog suit. Another hour in this thing and I'll be a raving lunatic." I give a shudder. "I think something's crawling up my back."

Teresa snickers.

I chomp on my donut, and something about the sweet taste of fried bread smothered in chocolate frosting helps me see the humor of my situation. I toss a napkin at her and grin. "Sure, you can laugh about it. You're not the one dressed like Bugs Bunny."

"You're adorable," she soothes, scratching my back - although I can barely feel the blunt nails (another sign of motherhood) through the fake fur.

"Thanks."

"But you might be having a slight bunny identity crisis." She gives me a pat. "You're Peter Rabbit, not Bugs."

"Oh yeah."

Teresa pushes another napkin-wrapped, glazed Krispy Kreme at me. "Here, sweetie," she says with the kind of sympathy that makes me feel totally sorry for myself. I choke back tears for a couple of reasons . . . one, I really don't want to ruin my bunny makeup, and two, the first donut simply whet my appetite for this one, and I can't eat and cry at the same time. Any other day I might cry first, then eat, but I only have a few minutes before the kids come rushing in. So of course, I pick the donut. Who wouldn't?

Just as I maneuver a bite around the whiskers, my two coworkers, Janice and Kristin (picture Cinderella's wicked stepsisters), enter the reading room. I bristle at the sight of their wrinkled smirky faces looking on in amusement as though I dressed up like this for their entertainment. I really hate them sometimes. I know, I know. Christians can't hate, and as a matter of fact, you can't be a Christian at all if you hate people. So I don't hate them, I just hate their smirky faces and snotty attitudes that make me feel stupid and so much less than them. What is it with women like that? And why do the rest of us give in to the low self-esteem? I mean, we know they're doing it on purpose. And still they enter the room, and my self-worth takes a hike.

Teresa nudges me and whispers, "Hey, aren't you three supposed to take turns dressing up?"

That's another thing I hate . . . the way those two always weasel out of the unpleasant tasks around here and leave me to do everything they wouldn't be caught dead doing.

"I think you and I are the only ones who remember that part," I say ruefully.

"Why don't you say something?"

Maybe she's right. Maybe I really should pull Mary, my manager, aside and say, "I'm not going to take this anymore, Mary. Now, maybe you haven't noticed, but I seem to dress up in these extremely uncomfortable and slightly humiliating costumes an inordinate number of times compared to the rest of the staff."

That's it. I'll complain with sophisticated words like inordinate, thus intimidating Mary into seeing things my way.

What is this stirring in the pit of my stomach? Oh, I remember, God. I'd love to complain, truly I would, but after a certain spiritual epiphany last night, I'm turning over a new leaf, and the new me is trying to get along with my fellow workers - the women who live to make my hours at work a living you-know-what.

My life would be a lot easier if God would consider talking to a few other people around here. You know, give someone else a spiritual epiphany like mine. I know He didn't ask my opinion. I'm just saying . . .

Okay, I know I need to relax. Because the truth of the matter is that God is in control - at least that's what we talked about last night - me and the Almighty. All about how my life stinks and maybe it's because I've been trying to run things my own way (thus the spiritual epiphany). Who knew?

Mary pokes her gray head around the corner into the kiddie room. "Are you ready, Tabby?"

As ready as I can be. I fake-chomp my big fake carrot. "Bring 'em on, doc."

Mary gives me a frown like she doesn't get it. "You do know you're supposed to be Peter Rabbit, not Bugs Bunny, right?"

"Yeah, I was just . . ." Uh, trying to make a joke? My face burns. "Never mind."

© Tracey Bateman, 2007

About the Author

Tracey Bateman is a slightly neurotic mother of four, wife of one, and owner of three dogs, two blue bloods and one mutt (the mutt is the only one who will come to her when called). Lifetime movies, chunky monkey ice cream, and frantic late night Instant message chats with friends, who are only slightly less neurotic, keep her moving forward when deadlines loom and insanity is nipping at the heels of her mind. When not franticly pressing toward deadlines, Lifetime movies, chunky monkey ice cream and frantic late night instant message chats with pals give her inspiration for the next project. Being president of American Christian Fiction Writers gives her the chance to give back to a community of writers who have helped shape her career and her writing style.