The On It Mom
Annabelle, or Belle for short, is the mom of one of Ax’s preschool classmates. She is what I’d call an “On It”-type mom. She’s memorized the dates of school vacations and knows the deadlines for Summer camp sign-ups. When it’s her turn to bring snack she brings homemade gluten-free paleo mini muffins with shredded zucchini in them that the kids love.
Her gorgeous daughter always comes to school not only clothed and fed, but in a coordinated outfit with matching hair accessories and shoes, having eaten something cooked – like waffles and scrambled eggs and turkey bacon. And her house is organized without piles of anything really anywhere and she likes her husband and she works full-time. And of course she looks like young Christy Brinkley. And she’s nice and funny and generous and self-deprecating and she’s my friend.
It’s taken me a while to trust that just because she’s got all this going on that, a) she is not a Borg, b) she does not judge me or my child, and c) I can admire her and learn some stuff without needing to do what she does in every respect.
For example, after several months, maybe even a year, of mentally preparing to bake mini muffins, I went to the health food store and there was a lovely package of mini-muffins for purchase that I brought home and fed to my child for breakfast. He was pleased and I’m going to take the win.
The other thing, I just found out from her what her kid’s summer camp schedule is going to be and I’m going to rely on her research and enroll Ax in those. Done. And maybe I will get one of those essential oil diffusers she swears by.
But our house probably will remain cluttered with toys and books and discarded clothing and I will never learn Zumba. Last President’s day will not be the last time I’ll bring Ax to school on a day that school’s closed, and he will probably wear pajamas to school not on pajama day a few more times during his preschool career and maybe even beyond. That’s how we roll, and it’s okay.
I can either buy yet another calendar or decide to accept my flavors of imperfection, even enjoy them. My sweet, disheveled, lovely, far from disastrous existence. My beautiful, imperfect life.