If I get one more Wonder Woman card or another Super Woman magnet I’m going to scream. Send me a pair of ruby slippers and you’ll be closer to the truth . . . because I’m much more like the Wizard of Oz, stuck behind an emerald green curtain, frantically working the switches and gadgets that make it all happen. And I’ve somehow convinced you it’s easy.
It’s time to come clean. It’s time to let you in on a few of the secrets I’m keeping. It’s time for me to be human.
I forget my children in carpool. Often.
Thank goodness the pick-up line at our school is so long. By the time I realize I forgot my poor middle-schooler, I can usually rush out of the office and make it in time as one of the last few cars. He’s convinced I do it on purpose, as a way of avoiding the long wait. I CANNOT WAIT until his big brother takes over the keys to the mini-van and the carpool schedule!
I hate talking on the phone. Please, just text me…
I spend an incredible amount of time on the phone because of work. And while I’m on the phone, I’m usually doing at least two other things. I’m also horrible about checking voicemail, and will easily forget to call you back because I don’t write things down (and am usually driving when you call). It doesn’t mean I don’t love you, it just means I’m too tired to have a long conversation. Besides, do you really want me to answer honestly when you ask me how I’m doing?
My husband folds our laundry. Always.
He also cleans up after supper with the boys, and runs the house when I’m out of town or in a late meeting. If you’ve read any of my past blogs, or know me personally, you know the only way I’ve been able to survive these past 17 years was because Brad is my partner. I remember looking at him once, probably in a fit of anger over something stupid, and telling him, “Remember, I’m here because I want to be . . . not because I have to be.” Well, I want to be with him, and I probably don’t tell him enough.
We’re not playing rec soccer. Never again.
Let me repeat this one. Never again. My 3-year-old’s didn’t enjoy soccer on early Saturday mornings, and (frankly) neither did I. We have enough children in our house to play our own game in the front yard when warranted, and you’re welcome to come join us. Besides, we’re baseball people . . . and even then I’m not the type to hang out in the bleachers during practice or for every game. After all, it’s their game – not mine.
I drink Diet Mountain Dew. Often.
I’ve always been a foodie. I love planning meals and avoiding processed food. The boys and I make our own pasta and pizza, and I can whip up a mean vegan bulgur loaf. And (gasp) I drink Diet Mountain Dew. Yes, I know it has oil in it (seriously, read the label), but I figure it’s better than eating the pound of chocolate I really want. Even though sometimes I do that too, I know the styrofoam cup it comes in is bad for the environment, just like the yellow food coloring is bad for me. But I admit I need the kick . . . often.
We yell, argue, and do incredibly gross things in my house. Even at the dinner table.
People are known to post only “the good” on Facebook. My sister accused me of doing that once . . . so I quickly posted a video of our twins throwing a tantrum in their car seats on a family road trip. I’m not sure anyone (except my sister) got the point . . . that in a house of five boys there is bound to be some discontent. We yell, they fight, and I go on strike regularly. I used to keep a jar near the dinner table, and every time a child made a bodily noise while eating they’d have to put a dollar in the jar. That jar disappeared a year ago because their wallets couldn’t keep up with their bad habits.
I’m probably singing a song from #Hamilton while you’re talking. And I’m judging you for not knowing what #Hamilton is.
I’m a woman with a snarky sense of humor, and I don’t suffer fools. In all honesty, this musical playbook is a coping mechanism I developed to stay out of trouble. Simply put: it helps me keep my mouth shut, my head down, and my nose clean. If you need any further explanation, may I suggest you listen as Aaron Burr explains it all to Alexander Hamilton?
We’re all in this. Together. Flaws and all.
If this silly admission of guilt on my part has empowered you to embrace your own normalcy, I’ve earned another Diet Mountain Dew. It’s time for us to be tolerant of each other, and of ourselves. And please, if you ever want to come hang out in Oz, let me know. We’ll have the soccer net set up!