Any other mini-van mamas out there bogged down with baggage (both physical and emotional, I suppose) and feeling about as proud as a pack mule? Here is your story:

Each morning, as I rush towards my morning finish-line (impressively, a predictably consistent ten minutes later than the very last second I can possibly leave with any hope of success at punctuality), I am amazed at the sheer volume of baggage I am able to physically lift, while running to my mark with one kid on my hip, another on my leg, while searching for the mysteriously absent third, and the methodically balanced distribution of lunch boxes, sippie cups, and diaper bags that teeter on each shoulder and wrist (and on the worst of days, even a desperate ankle), threatening to reach disequilibrium at any moment, with the potential of becoming a lethal pendulum, with the hip hugger being its first victim. Or worse… costing me yet another precious second in the endless fight against time, I call motherhood. 

Now I know what you well-intentioned, wise old owls will advise (one of the many benefits of paranoia is my uncanny ability to predict all potential opposition): Natural Consequences! Let the bags be and allow the little ones to learn life’s lesson. Genius! And while the theme of natural consequences is my personal parenting mantra and favorite catch phrase to share with a smile (and sarcasm) when faced with the worried, well-wisher staring down my toddler as they teeter on the tree trunk (or staircase, or sibling, or any other treacherous, yet non-life threatening object, my tiny daredevils choose to conquer), in the case of the pack mule scenario, it is a faulted and failing attempt at lazy, life lessons. You see the whole “starving children” thing is often looked down upon in a school setting. Must be a legal/licensing thing.  Thus, the well intentioned school staff will inevitably produce some sort of coveted cheese and cracker kiddie crack, as an “alternative” to starvation and, therefore, actually reinforce this radical irresponsibility, like some sort of scholastically funded Skinner Box. So do I specifically request starvation, and welcome the stares of horror (and perhaps a friendly visit from my local branch of social services)? Or do I put a pause on the demands of autonomy, resort to the maternal mule modus operandi, and agree to the surrender terms of an evening massage (a.k.a. dogpile on Mama), to make up for the muscle malformation of Mama’s mornings?  My vote…take pride pack mules. Your mission may not be distinguished to the masses, but this fellow “donkey”, would never dare to judge your consistent attempt at accomplishing the impossible. Mommies are truly, the noblest of breeds.

Are you a Mama Mule? Share your story of survival in the comments section and let’s make this OUR story.

Too ashamed to attempt your abandonment of autonomy? Hit “Like” or become a “Follower”,  and enjoy the liberation of honesty, with the added comfort of anonymity.

Know of another “donkey” hiding in the shadows? Share this story and save them from the Mommy Wars. Parenting isn’t about perfection. It is simply survival!