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.