I’m a planner.

Apparently, God thinks that is quite funny.

I’m late. I’m always late.

I’m wrong. I’m always wrong.

I’m never done. Never on the right path. And my life is never, ever going as planned.

And yet, I systematically stare at the impossibility of my plans (too much, too many, too late), and still find myself consistently surprised and disappointed by my seemingly planned defeat(s)…

…and then immediately make a plan on how to better plan my next plan.

I am in love with lists.

I fantasize about the checking off of a to-do…

…sometimes with such passion that I have been known to add a “done” to my “to-do”,  just to experience the hallelujah of then immediately crossing out its significance.

It is kind of sick. I admit it.

I am the result of too many sticker charts.

I confess my dependence on my fictional extrinsic addiction, fueled by the M & M model of my gold star generation.

And yet I plan on.

But why?

I pretend the perfect Pinterest party will be the memory that my children will one day paint my portrait in. I convince myself the Disneyland destination that drains our savings will save my munchkins from the memories of their screaming, savage of a mother. I plan their “moments”  with the fantasy of a living scrapbook of their happy childhood.

I’m a planner.

Apparently, God thinks that is quite funny.

My plans will never be their moments, their memories.

Their etchings will be earned through the traditions you never intended. Those that never seemed worthy of posting. Not important enough to even mention in an old fashioned conversation.

These moments were never planned. Never listed on any “To-Do”. Never deemed significant enough to even be darkened as “Done”.

They are the strangers hand prints in the sidewalk they test each time they pass, with dreams of their tiny digits finally stretching enough to fill the puddle. The ones they make you stop and wait for, EVERY time.

It is that hidden jam where you’ve allowed, even welcomed, the forbidden Sharpie, to graffiti the inches, that seem to have evolved into feet, in the magic of years that somehow feel like a mere moment.

They are Mickey Mouse pancakes fashioned more out of imagination than anything resembling Disney, or the bad bedtime stories authored by exhaustion.

They are right there, in that “secret place” (you know the one) where they’ve created mystery out of monotony and magic out of the mundane.

This is it!

These are their memories.

So, I’m late. I’m always late.

And I’m wrong. I’m always wrong.

And I’m never done. Never on the right path. And my life is never, ever going as planned.

So what?

Be late. Because maybe, just maybe, today is the day that their hands might match the stranger in the sidewalk.

Be wrong. Because finding the “Mickey” in the mess is more magical anyways.

Dare to clear your calendar…

…because if we are always planning their next big adventures, we’ll miss out on the ones they might actually remember.

At least…

…that is my plan.

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Help me avoid the morning-after-writer’s-remorse that wells from the paranoia of my signature self-shaming, by giving me your virtual nod and smile, and I will promise to divulge deeper despairs in days to come.

My home will never, ever be featured in Homes and Gardens…unless, of course they were in need of a dramatic before shot or some sort of warning label. Our home is cluttered with hand-me-downs and thrift store finds and, I can assure you, that any aesthetic accomplishments are purely accidental. In all honesty, we have chosen a path in life that would never allow for the kind of beauty you’d find on a cover. We just can’t afford it.  But, with equally genuine transparency, that is just how I like it. You see, while our old, questionably hygienic furniture, that should have been replaced a decade ago is surely not worthy of capturing on film, it is the perfect breeding ground for capturing moments, memories, and all of those other beauties of life that get pushed out when “beauty” is pushed in. I am grateful because when my kiddos bounce on our bed or do back flips on the couch, I don’t have to worry about “ruining the (fill in the blank…everything we own is old and deprecate)”, and in doing so ruining their moments that will become the memories that will be worth remembering one day. I am grateful for their tradition of making mountains of pillows in preparation for braving leaps from our bed. Grateful for the teamwork involved in their mischief and the rare moments without rivalry that come from letting them entertain themselves with potentially disastrous consequences. Grateful for our already disastrous life that is the perfect foundation for allowing in the chaos that brings the laughter and makes our home, a home. So truly, genuinely, absolutely, I am grateful for our hot mess home, and our hot mess children, and our hot mess home, because the beauty of our life is so much clearer when posed against it all.   But please…just give me a 15 minute warning before you come-a-knockin’ so I can hide the chaos in the closet, wipe off the visible dirt, throw a blanket over the stains, and pretend that none of this madness is true. And if you surprise me in your hunt for a cover shot and I tell you that you just “caught me at a bad time,” know that I am lying. We will never, ever be your cover shot. We will always be the warning label. It is up to you to decide what that warning is. WARNING: “If you don’t pick up the pillow pile, you might end up looking like this” or WARNING: “If you keep picking up the pillow pile, you might miss the moments that feel just like this.” I think our choice is aesthetically evident.

I just survived a Level 5, Red Alarm, Off-the-Chart, monumental meltdown in the middle of Target. I’m not saying I deserve a Purple Heart people, but I sure wouldn’t mind a smile.

Here is the scenario, we HAVE to go shopping. Believe it or not, a trip to a sweets and treats crack house with my 3 rabid addicts, pre-nap, in a busy breeding ground for judgmental eyes, is NOT my idea of meditation, or even entertainment.  But we soldier mamas battle on, in our humble quest for yogurt and apple sauce, and some indulgences (sad, but accurate word choice here) for Daddy’s lavish birthday.

So when the first battle over choice of briefs for a paternal present ensued, I was armed and ready with wise words and redirection. We even survived the chocolate aisle in a pursuit for some dark bites to be bowed, by strategically sharing the berry basket for a forbidden pre-purchase distraction. But with only moments to spare before the bomb was ignited, my battle plans were foiled when we were surprise attacked by every mama warrior’s biggest enemy, the casual acquaintance mama, WITHOUT her kids. I immediately went on high alert, hiding the open box of blueberries, and attempting to hide the drooling, snarling beasts I had pouring out of every crack of my cart, to no avail. What could have been a battle just death-defying, but successful(?) enough to be brag worthy, was immediately turned into a fragmented mess beyond repair. That momentary loss of mama-focus, that temporary lapse in superhuman intention…They smelled the fear. My fear. My insecurity. My need to please the stranger, with a portrait of motherhood that is simply…not.

And that was it. Crying. No, not crying….wailing. Kicking. No, not kicking, lashing. Screaming. No, not screaming. Howling.

Here we were. 2 items from the checkout line, basket full, and this.

Thank goodness for the experts roaming the aisles of Target, the apparent researchers and celebrated theorists in the field of parenting that have humbled themselves to the frozen food section of a discount store for their mid-afternoon sessions.

The first appeared with some amazing insight that was clearly filled with the wisdom of behavioral science. She spoke directly to the convulsing mass attached to my still walking leg, as she sang, “Ooooooh (note the intentional extra o’s)! Poor baby.”  Apparently, it was obvious that I had fastened him to my fumbling feet as some sort of torture technique for my own amusement. I was surely to blame for his misery. “Do you want some candy,” pulling some lint covered M and Ms from her therapist’s coat. I politely smiled at the well-intentioned, visiting early childhoood expert, and declined the offer.  The whole, rewarding meltdown behavior, while declining a reinforcer for the self-controlled siblings/infusing sugar into a tired toddler/candy from strangers/questionable sanitation, was sweet and temporarily tempting, but I decided to battle on sugar-free, against expert advice.

Of course, the frenzy continued. 12:30, pre-lunch, pre-nap, distracted mama, denied candy from a stranger, toddlers in Target. Surprising? For some reason it seemed to surprise the next developmental psychologist I encountered. A male (Not necessarily noted for sexist intentions. Just noted). Leaning in with a sweet smile, he shared, “I’d slap him so hard across that screaming mouth, he would never try that again,” followed by a subtle wink to assert his gentle spirit. Why thank you kind sir. Thank you. Your wisdom is well-rooted in the research of Maslow, among others, and should be featured prominently in the pages of Psychology Today. I can imagine it now, Publicly Face-Slapping Children: A Lost Science by Random Childless Single. I politely smiled and thanked him for the free session, and moved ahead, adhering to even the wildest of Social Services standards, all the way to check out.

There I met my final, friendly foe of the fit, the most subtle and common variety of floating experts among the super market circuit. Leaning in, the loving, yet long little-one-less mama, reminiscing on a tumultuous-less time in her memory, that may likely be more Hallmark than history, sweetly whispered, “You poor thing. The one and only time my son through a tantrum in a store, I turned right around and just left. He never had another one again.” Looking at my basket full of bread and butter basics and a few pathetic little presents to be bought with their own pennies, I considered her well-meant wisdom. So all I have to do is starve my hungry, over-stimulated, over-tired, toddler and deny his unknowing father of his Target brand birthday presents, and he will NEVER have another tantrum again? And the other two, calm children (who have somehow survived me all of these years, without transforming into complete savages) will be completely accepting of this no food, no purchasing their hand-picked presents for their daddy with their piggy bank pennies clause, bathing in the gratitude of leaving their good intentions behind, only to watch me battle their flailing brother into a seemingly shrinking car seat, who has now somehow developed superhuman strength and a flexibility known only by Gumby, allowing him to wiggle through my choke hold with repeated success? I weigh my options,  smile politely, and opt to gingerly move the now primitive sounding monkey surgically attached to my leg to the finish line.

It is just then that I realize I had chosen the perfect lane for my perils. A natural observation lab for these all-knowing onlookers. Really? Today, of all days, you need to card me, a 35-going-on-70-year-old looking-mother of 3,  buying Goldfish crackers and gray-covering hair dye. Really? You need to call over the manager to make sure you are charging me correctly for the bananas? Really? Charge me for the organic. Heck, charge me for the Gluten-Free, Dairy-Free, Ten-x-the-Price-Free, whatever. Please, just let me escape this looking glass. So when she began to oh-so-sweetly, meticulously fold the underwear, assuring symmetrical creases,  deaf to the serenade of screeches surrounding her, I smiled politely and bagged my own briefs, subtly sharing the surprising news that I was actually in a bit of a hurry. Please note that the innocent check-out lady likely had no suspicion of the fire she had ignited with her OCD-inspired good intentions. I was completely civilized in my state of panicked humiliation.

And as we left the bright lights of price checks and the chaos of crashing carts, and I allowed myself the first few seconds to breathe since the battle began, much to my surprise, the beast released HIMSELF.  He didn’t need a chocolate (although I might admit to have had moments of soothing my savages with sugar) or a public beating (although I might admit to the evil death stare with eyes of equivalent intentions) or a subtle starvation (although I might admit to missed meals, disguised by the dusty bag of Cheerios I found in the back of the cupboard). He didn’t even need to be picked up to please the voiceless stranger who I am quite sure just wanted him to stop by any means necessary. (I am so sincerely sorry silent stranger. If my shame could be measured in apologies, we would surely be even.) He needed quiet. He needed calm. He needed the natural consequence packaged up in patience. He needed me. I’m his expert. We’re their experts mamas.

And as my two year old terror (at times) still shaking from the severity of the scene independently murmured, “I sorry Mama. I love you Mama. I want you Mama. I wait next time Mama. I sorry,” without a prompt coated in sugar or a slap of submission, a real researcher willing to ask questions, camouflaged with a coat of offspring herself, approached me with this, “Oh my goodness! He is so sweet. How did you get him to do that?”  To which I replied, “I didn’t. He did. I just survived the battle here,” and changed the mood of our whole little world with some much-needed laughter. And then she knighted me with this, “I totally understand. Good job mama!” I smiled. Not politely this time, but in relief and sincere gratitude for her compassionate session.

She saw through the horrific scene, to see a two year old having a typical tantrum at Target, and a family who weathered the storm and somehow survived as a solid unit, and reminded me of that success. Sometimes I forget how little they are and yet how big their feelings are. They seem so monstrously big and their feelings seem so insignificantly small, when you are in it. Thank you fellow mama warrior for not sharing your stories of success at that exact moment, but sharing with me the compassion of transparency. Thank you from the deepest parts of mommyhood, for understanding.

Obviously, I am not an expert. Obviously! But I am a researcher.  And I have researched the experts, and teach about the experts (to unsuspecting students who think I know what I am doing), and, more importantly, I’m out here in my own minefields, enough to know that regardless of what you do, toddlers are hard-wired for tantrums. This will not be our last tragic scene. I foresee a clear future of callouses earned from many, many sequels. And I am equally certain that we can navigate our way through these momentary insanities in different ways, with different views, and we will all survive unscathed, as long as it is all peppered in love. I am not the expert, but I’m the closest thing they’ve got. My children are simply the experiment of a mad scientist mama trying my best to “research” my way out of an epic explosion. You’ll have to check back in a few decades and see if we all made it out alive. I only hope that in future sessions, the well-intentioned experts, might swap their sessions for support.  Smile at THAT mama at the check out stand. Help her get those groceries and go, or empower her with the magic of, “I understand.” And while I am aware that such wisdom wishers share their stories peppered in that same love that we all have for our tiny beasts (except for maybe that guy with the backhand), please-oh-please, unless you really are an expert in the field, please save your wisdom for your paid sessions.

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or FOLLOW, or read some more.

Help me avoid the morning-after-writer’s-remorse that wells from the paranoia of my signature self-shaming, by giving me your virtual nod and smile, and I will promise to divulge deeper despairs in days to come.

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I am routinely over-planned, over-booked, over-whelmed. So I consistently smile wider, with the hope of over-shadowing all of my overs, by over-doing it once again. Then I come home to consistently crumble over too much to do, too little time, inaudibly blubbering my infamous “I can’t,” “I won’t”, recognizable only to my faithful few who have lived through enough of my self-imposed storms to translate my ridiculous routine, when even I am blind to my schedule cell.  And yet, he has yet to call me out on my consistent inconsistencies, the repetition of my too much and too little. He is the master of listening intently (or at least masquerading as so) to a story he has been told again and again, and to which he knows the inevitable ending, but never ruins the tragic twist for me. He never tortures me by revealing the realization that my storms are really just my self-published series of chaotic choose-your-own-adventures. He weathers my storms. He hands me the umbrella for the predictable waterworks and begins to blow up the raft to help me paddle out of the ocean I pulled us all into…again. I am routinely over-planned, over-booked, over-whelmed, and he never, ever drowns me by over-analyzing, over-judging, or over-emphasizing the obvious, that every “over” in my life, is all my own. No. Instead, he jumps in with me every time. And saves me from over-doing it (again), in my predictable story of pretending to save the world. Admit it…behind every Room Mom, every Team Mom, every Troop Leader, every “volunteer” there are the silent superheroes that save us from ourselves, so that we can go out and pretend to save the world again tomorrow. He’s mine. Who’s yours?

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or COMMENT, or FOLLOW my blog…or just read some more of my disasters.

Help me avoid the morning-after-writer’s-remorse that wells from the paranoia of my signature self-shaming, by giving me your virtual nod and smile, and I will promise to divulge deeper despairs in days to come.

You know you are a working mama when…

…you think back fondly to the days of maternity leave with a colicky newborn, as “those days when you got some sleep.”

…your toddler’s breakfast theater involves the holding of their banana to their ear, while shooshing to their siblings “Mama’s Working. Go play!” or “Go put on ANOTHER Dora” (Hey…it’s educational), while “typing” on their waffle and “cooking” their sausage in their imaginary microwave (although even radiation-infused, hot food is truthfully only a reality on those theoretical “good” days).

…you convince yourself that neglecting your children is somehow an asset to them. “It fosters imagination!” “It facilitates independence!” Sure.

…you actually take a whole breathe in and let out an audible sigh of relief at magically getting that chronic must-do done, when you suddenly realize you have no idea where your children are, and it is strangely quiet (think “eye of the storm”). So you violently crash into your Yard House mug of Starbucks,  as you sprint towards the inevitable disaster you anticipate behind that closed door.

…you’ve officially given up on folding the laundry, and simply pray for a day to sort the mountain into moveable hills you can temporarily transport away, so you can remember a time when your closet was your closet, and not a secret sanctuary to closet the visual representation of your state in life.

…in those theoretical, mythical moments when the impossibility of completion unfolds, and ALL of your in-boxes are empty AND you all SIT DOWN to a dinner together that YOU made, IN THE OVEN, you wonder why you aren’t being awarded a physical Metal of Honor for your accomplishments. Where’s my parade, people?

…you reach for a business card from your briefcase and pull out superhero underwear…at a meeting…with a client…and you are too tired to even bother explaining, and contemplate just handing over the Underoos instead, as a symbol of who your real boss is.

Come to think of it, maybe I should have titled this “You Know You WERE a Working Mama When…” I’m not sure these events constitute peak professionalism, or performance, or potential continued employment, or even the honor of being called a mama.

Even so, here is to doing the impossible, working mamas!  Now get out there and attempt those absurd impossibilities once again. Conquer that laundry mountain, while voice commanding an email, while wiping a tiny, little behind. (Well, maybe allow for a hand washing break between the laundry and the behind) Ignore your imaginative little “independents”, knowing you are inspiring innovation with your “intentional” neglect. Pat yourself on the back for managing to magic up a balanced breakfast, even when that translates to shelling out the guilt money for those pricey gluten-free toaster waffles this time, and yelling at your tiny people to get off their banana phones and start chewing, all the way from from the shower which you had the audacity to sneak in for once.  Please accept this virtual gold medal for surviving another seemingly bipolar day of managing to maintain multiple personalities, multiple personas, multiples of everything. YOU ARE AMAZING!

If you can relate, please LIKE, or SHARE, or COMMENT, or FOLLOW my blog…or just read some more of my disasters.

Help me avoid the morning-after-writer’s-remorse that wells from the paranoia of my signature self-shaming, by giving me your virtual nod and smile, and I will promise to divulge deeper despairs in days to come.