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?

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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.