Basket Case

As I scrabble around the pantry this morning, attempting to pack a lunch that will end up consisting of croutons (hey! They’re just like cube shaped crackers!), pickled jalapeños, and the same apple that has travelled back and forth from school for a week, I ponder how well I’m actually doing at this parent gig.

I remember when my firstborn arrived…things seemed to be much more…well, “normal” than they are now.

Laundry was actually folded and PUT AWAY IN DRAWERS. Now, I lay hastily balled up piles of clothes on my children’s beds, where they promptly throw it all back in the hamper.

Baby food was made by hand. FROM ORGANIC INGREDIENTS, y’all. I kept a meticulous chart of first foods tried so I’d know if baby had an allergic reaction. By the time I had my fourth child, I’m pretty sure his first solid food was a six week old McDonald’s French fry. From the floor of the minivan. That he got to just before the dog did.

Perfectly coordinated clothes were worn. These days, if we manage to find a matching pair of socks, it’s worthy of a Facebook post. Last week, one of my kids went to school in a wig for three days straight. They are still calling her Afro Steve.

Homework was done. Meals were planned. Phone calls and emails were returned. People –  I even used to RSVP for birthday parties…wait for it…BY THE DATE ON THE INVITATION.

I now find myself living in a house where I regularly find hockey balls in the fridge and the dryer being used for science projects. The only place I’ve wrapped gifts for birthday parties in the last five years is in my van on the way to the party. All my tools are in the woods beside the house. My world involves a three foot tall person who is perpetually in character as either the tenth or eleventh Dr Who. And don’t even remind me about the time the kids unplugged the deep freeze so they could plug in all the Halloween inflatables in the basement…

As I pack that well travelled apple back in to the lunch pack for the tenth time, thinking about my failings as a nurturer, a smallish, sticky person comes up and says to me- “Mom, I hate your lunches. But I love you anyway.” And I realize, that maybe, just maybe I’m doing ok at this mother shtick.

Being a bit of a basket case has become situation normal. And I love it. Give me a little nuts over a lot of ordinary any day.