Tulane Tour

Kneeling over the toilet in the gender neutral bathroom, I try to vomit. It’s not happening. Maggie yells, “Mom, hurry, the tour’s gonna start” I stagger up, wash my hands, and join the other families waiting in the freezing AC for the 9:00am Tulane tour. Maggie holds up the brochure, and sighs, showing me the SAT scores for admitted students..“Oh, that’s Bull shit, you’re fine” I said, noticing the diversity trifecta gracing the cover. There’s a grinning Asian boy in a Tulane cap with his arms around a red lipped Latina girl, and an African American girl with long dreads. “Mom, you look weird. You ok?” Maggie asks. “Yeah” I nod, as the student tour guides are introduced. Maggie sprints to Regina’s group. Regina, a sorority girl, stem major, in jean shorts, striped adidas, and a cropped Tulane shirt, is Maggie’s type. Regina walks backwards pointing out the new Commons and The Freeman Business School. My short legs stretch to keep up with my Chinese daughter’s dancer limbs, as she follows Regina. These college tours blur together. Even the tour guides are the same: backwards walking, pimple free, wonder kids with double majors, and porcelain white teeth.

I don’t care where my daughter goes to school. We’ve been through college hell with our son, Ben, who after a great Gap year, spiraled down at a snowy college, exiting on medical leave before Christmas. These days Ben flips burgers with his brawny tattoed arms — no college plans in sight. He is happy..I think….

Like all parents, I want my kids to be happy, if “happy” is even possible in our pressure cooker culture. Banners around Tulane say it’s the 4th happiest college — must be all the booze and humidity down here. Instead of bragadocius banners boasting percentages of Rhode scholars, and Peace Corps volunteers, they’re proud of being happy.

Amidst all this ‘happy’, I feel another wave of nausea and wonder what happens if I need to vomit on this tour..As Regina explains freshman seminars, I try to ignore my daughter’s icy glares. She’s convinced I am hung over.

We went out last night with my friends from kindergarten. They drank Cosmos. I just had wine. Later, I vomited, my wretches echoing through dad’s high ceilinged old house. “Mom Oh My God, you’re puking..the tour’s tomorow!” Maggie yelled. “I’ll be fine, it’s just a bug” I cried. “Yeah, right,” she said. “Y’all were drinking, I was there”. I don’t want to argue with my daughter from the bathroom floor but I do..“Maggie, please, I had a little wine”..Years ago Maggie saw me stumble home and vomit on the hall rug after cocktails at the neighbors. I was an exhausted young mom, who drank too much on an empty stomach. Maggie never got over it and still points out that stain.

And now our group is cramped in a sample dorm room oohing and ahhing over the tiny fridge and sink. Nausea grips my gut as we head up the stairs of the Riley Athletic Center. I race to the bathroom, covering my mouth, as orange vomit seeps through my fingers. I barely make it to the first stall…When I finally slink out of the bathroom with vomit glued to my long tassel necklace, I find Maggie on the phone telling her dad, “Mom threw up on the tour.. In front of everyone”. “She thinks I drank too much with the girls. I didn’t, I’m just sick”, I chime in.

A couple of blonde Southern moms in capri pants give me the stink eye. They must’ve seen my graceful sprint to the bathroom. I hang back from the group, texting my friends, “I puked at Tulane”, I said. They reply with vomit emojis, as old friends would. Maggie stomped over, “Mom, I cant believe you’re texting on the tour”. “I’m just checking if anyone else was sick”. “Mom, you don’t have the stomach flu and you know it”. She huffed, rolling her almond shaped eyes.

This was suppose to be our fun mother-daughter trip to New Orleans and I’ve ruined it. We hit the Tulane bookstore where I cave and buy Maggie the $60 Champion sweatshirt, since I am a shitty mom and threw up on the tour. I buy Rolaids and classic Lays potato chips to suck on in the Uber home.

I wish I could have a big fat do-over for today. My phone pings — a group text from work: “Stomach Virus. 8 Staff out. Closed Monday. Deep Clean. I want to holler from the roof tops, “See, I DID catch a bug. I’m NOT the drunk loser Mom, my daughter assumes I am”.

When Maggie thinks back on her Tulane visit, I hope she remembers the 4th happiest college, not her mom’s head in the toilet. Another wave of nausea hits. On my crawl to the bathroom, it dawns on me, I’m NOT a shitty mom. Even while throwing up, I’m showing up for my kids, college or no college. 4th Happiest or not. I’m here.