Apparently, this is just how I roll…

In my mind, I’ve got it going on. My house is straight, my children relatively obedient, my priorities in order, my schedule appropriately filled, my legs shaved. Other than the fact that I’d say, yeah, my kids are about as obedient as one can expect a 16 month old and an almost 4 year old to be…well, let’s just say if everything is perfect in my mind, in reality, clearly, I am out of my mind.

A couple of weeks ago, as I was washing my face, preparing to go to bed, I noticed that there was a Dora yogurt label affixed to my shirt. No one had eaten yogurt since breakfast. So apparently, I’d gone to the grocery store, picked up Henry from school, and eaten at Qdoba, all with an aluminum foil pasty stuck on my left nipple like some cheap Janet Jackson impersonator.

Last Friday, on the way to Gracie’s follow-up RSV visit to the pediatrician, Gracie took off her socks and shoes. Too tired to put them back on, I carried her in shoeless, despite the cold temps. No biggie, right? But then, while in the waiting room, she had a poop explosion. So she was the baby with just a shirt on. And a winter coat. But it’s the doctor’s office, right? However, upon returning to my car, I noticed the Suburban was driving all wonky and I was legitimately scared my truck was going to explode. So I had to drive straight to the mechanic’s with my half naked baby. What was wrong with my car? It was in 4 wheel drive. Someone (who will remain nameless) likes to push buttons while sitting in my lap in the carpool line.

On Monday, upon taking my shoes off for Gracie’s Kindermusik class, I noticed I was wearing two different socks. Not two with just different colored stitching. But a shortie sock and a tube sock. How does that even happen without me noticing? And since I had grabbed a sock ball from the drawer, my lack of paying attention happened not only while dressing but while folding laundry.

Yesterday I dropped Gracie off at nursery without a diaper bag. I’d packed her one; it even had an extra outfit in it in case of poop explosions. Because, you know, I’d learned my lesson from last week. I just left the well-stocked bag on our front porch. Mother. Of. The. Year.

So when today, I found myself late because the clock in Gracie’s room was 15 minutes slow, walking across the parking lot of Henry’s school carrying an IKEA potty full of urine to dump in the bushes, barefoot in 50 degree weather showing my half worn off pedicure, in a shirt crusty from snot and applesauce, a head full of teeny tiny hair bows that I’d meant to put away, with a zit on my face so large that it felt wrong not to name it (Larry), I had to laugh. I wanted to make excuses--I was focused on sorting out the too small clothes in Gracie’s drawers and lost track of time. I didn’t want to be late so I didn’t put on shoes or change my clothes. But really, I think I just have to face it. Crap like this happens to me all the time. Apparently, this is who I am. The mom with serious wardrobe malfunctions and half naked kids.

Good thing I know how to rock hair bows and make yogurt label pasties look friggin' awesome.