I seriously don’t. If you spent one week with me, you would see that so much just slides around and gets bounced back and forth until I finally snap and just deal with it. I never understand why people call me “Supermom”, because I don’t see it.
The laundry is piled up, as are the dishes. ESPECIALLY the dishes, it’s like I can never have a cleaned off counter and an empty sink. One moment I’m wondering when I’ll wash them and put them away, and instead of doing just that, I’m working.
I work a lot. I guess it wasn’t until I started looking at just WHAT it is that I do, and when I do it, that I never realized just how possible it is that I might be addicted to work. Having an iPhone really enables that because I am constantly checking things – email, Facebook, Twitter, news. Sure, some of that is personal and leisurely, but for the most part, it results in some type of work.
But anyway, I don’t have it all together. We had a birthday party this past weekend – it was a blast. There was a candy buffet, and themed tablecloths, capes and masks, tattoos, Nerf guns, chalk on the sidewalk, and tons of food and screaming kids (in a good way). The only pictures I have though, are from opening presents. I won’t be able to show anyone the candy buffet, or the spread of food. No pictures of kids getting tattoos, or getting outfitted in their capes and masks. The camera was there, and maybe it’s not MY fault alone, but I feel like I failed at capturing those moments forever.
I forget things. I lose things. I run around frantically trying to find things as we head out the door. More times than I can count have we had to turn around to go back home for a forgotten item.
I’ll admit that I’ve turned on a movie just to get the kids quiet so I can have some time to myself (or to work).
We don’t eat at home as much as we should. We blow through any “eat out” budget number that I can think of. Which is ridiculous because I work AT home, I’m already here, I should just cook. We’re working on this though.
I’ve yelled and spanked butts. I’ve slammed doors. I’ve walked off and hid myself in the laundry room to breathe.
I hate being called “Supermom”. I really do. I’m sorry, but I don’t think ANYONE is a “Supermom”. If one is, then we all must be and it’s a twisted definition. Why? We all have moments where sure, we do something great and everything is perfectly aligned and running smoothly, but more times than not, we are running ourselves into the ground at full speed. We cook, we clean, we chauffeur, we work, we play, and at the end of the day, I can’t be the only one who just wants to NOT do it all. We stress over everything, we lie and say we aren’t stressed. We cry in the shower because things didn’t go as we planned, and smile when people ask us how we’re handling it. Our kids scream and we think, “Is that seriously all you can do?!”.
I wish I had a perfectly laid out calendar – appointments, meetings, and deadlines all color-coded, and things checked off and cute notes to myself to be happy, be thankful, but I don’t. I don’t think I ever will. I wish that the house were magazine-ready, but it’s far from it. It looks more like someone attempted to started organizing and now there’s piles everywhere. Oh wait, that’s exactly what it looks like.
Maybe when all of the kids are grown and out of the house. Maybe then I’ll be okay with the “Supermom” title. I guess at least then, I will know that I held it together with enough duct tape, Elmer’s glue, and wine to raise three successful kids.