As with any other mom, my day is filled with a multitude of tasks, roles, and jobs - the trick is to try and juggle the mommy hat, the wife hat, the employee hat, the baseball mom hat, etc - and somehow still look on the outside like I've got it all together, when inside, all the juggling is a 5-star circus performance!
To help me keep up this insane facade, I try and pre-plan anything I can. The night before, I lay out clothes for everyone but Matt (yes, at 35 years old, he can usually come out of the closet wearing matching clothes all by himself!), I plan Chance's lunch for the next day, pack any sports bags, school bags, etc., and try to rotate through a load of laundry or two. The boys do bathtub/shower at night (because we all hate mornings), and homework is all done for the next day - if I'm lucky, homework happened at Tina's house (have I mentioned how much I love her?), and the boys can have some time in the evening just to be boys.
Since it is baseball season, and Chance only has one uniform, I have to do at least a couple loads of laundry before each game - one of whites for the pants and socks, and one of colors for the t-shirt. It's never a problem filling up the color load, but we don't generally go through enough whites to do a full load every 2 days - so the whites just become this rotating pile of clean to dirty - never quite getting folded - 1/2 of it shoved into the baseball bag, and everyone grabbing their socks for the day out of the other 1/2.
Well, by a couple weeks into the season, the clean side of the white rotation pile had grown through the acquisition of several 1/2 loads. Those of you who are real organized moms, not just pretend organized like me, please do not judge the fact that I didn't fold my whites for a couple weeks - if you do, I will have no choice but to invite you to my house to show me how this is done. It may take several lessons before I get the hang of it - you, coming over, rescuing my poor, wrinkled athletic socks from their pile of doom, and dallying them up in to cute little pairs that are easily grabbed out of my sock drawer. Until you are ready to take on this project, please read on without condemnation . . .
Anyway, as I stated, the white pile had grown significantly, and I had to pack some weekend bags for the boys. So, I pack the regular clothes in their little suitcases, and head to "the pile" in search of underwear and socks. In walks my son, Chance. Picture me, bent over "the pile", tossing socks in to make-shift smaller piles, belonging to each family member . . .
Chance, Colt, dad, dad, mom, Colt, Chance, Colt, Colt, dad, mom, mom, etc, etc.
I was going so fast, it was a veritable tornado of white, with each little (or big) sock landing majestically into it's intended pile.
Chance watched with wide eyes.
"Wow, mom, how do you do that?"
"Know who's is who's so fast?"
And then, I did what no parent should ever do. I told him my secret. Up until this point, he was standing in that room pondering - "maybe my mom really does know everything. And, she knows how to do everything, even sort laundry, really, really fast!" So, pardoning my error in judgement, here is how the rest of the conversation went . . .
"Well, your socks look different than your brothers."
"Show me how."
"Colton's have grey all along the bottom - yours just has gray at the toe and heel."
"How do you get them to do that, mom?"
"Well, I buy them like that - from Wal-Mart - on purpose!"
"Wow . . . . . . . . . you're really good at that."
Now, aside from an occasional complement on a really good do on a batch of chicken nuggets or Kraft mac n cheese, Chance isn't usually very loose with the compliments. This is one of the first unprompted ones I've gotten, which wasn't related to food.
And here I thought I was pulling the Superwoman thing off pretty well - gourmet cook, top-notch employee, daily planner extraordinaire for our household - a real gold-medal mom.
Instead, I find myself in a distaaaaaaaaaaaant second place, on the silver medal platform - as the mom who knows how to sort socks really, really well.
I guess we all gotta have something . . .