One More Thing

The last thing I need is something else to add to my “to-do” list.

See, I am the mother of five. My daughters are 4 years old and 6 years old, in pre-K and in Kindergarten. My step son is 7 years old and in first grade, my step daughters are 10 and 12 and in third and fifth grade. They attend schools all across Cherokee county and sporting events scattered even further across metro Atlanta. I drive my husband to work at the Galleria. My 5-month-old nephew spends the day with me while my sister works. I meet my niece and nephew when they get off the bus.

I work part time at a chiropractor and massage therapist in East Cobb. My closer-to-full-time-job is running my own business.

I keep our household of seven running with shopping, meals, cleaning, laundry, and trying as hard as I possibly can, and yet ultimately failing, to get all the ridiculous spare random socks that are scattered across the house all to one single place.

I strive to keep a balance with my kids between homework and play. Sweets and protein. Computer and kickball. Bedtimes and entertainment. Snuggling and tying their own shoes. Being polite and being engaging. Practicing existing skills and trying new ones. Juice and milk. Nightlight or not. Singing and karate. Petting the cat and pulling weeds.

Our family lives close, and our birthdays mostly run one after another, one month after the next. So there is always a birthday party to plan. Getting all the kids together, finding out what friends they want to invite, deciding if family is coming or they will be invited to a separate dinner on another night. My step daughter’s 10th birthday is Saturday so we’ve got the miracle of pulling off a party on whatever is thinner than a shoe-string budget. Dental floss? Thread?

By the time I get home from my morning drop-off routine, and get a chore done (or just started), its time to begin the pick-up rounds. Bus stop for the niece and nephew, pick up at school for the kids, on the way down I-75 to get my husband.

Home at last, starting dinner, my sister picking up the baby. Dinner on the table, picky eaters, sit down, just try the green beans, no you can’t be excused yet, no you can’t have another juice box, yes you can have an orange after dinner, we don’t have any more rolls, no you can’t be excused yet, why haven’t you tried the green beans, finish your chicken, no you can’t be excused yet, OK fine but take your plate to the sink, don’t throw away the spoon!

Homework has to be scheduled because only a few fit with their book bags, folders, and handouts around the table at a time. The kids argue over the TV, the toys, the video games, no matter which one is playing what. There is a reason the TV game show about intelligence picked fifth grade as their standard, because that is when homework questions get very specific about items that apparently left my head years ago. (sixth grade, I’m guessing.) Dishes get cleaned and dishwasher loaded as the kids shuffle through their spots at the table.

Once the homework is done, now its bedtime and all of its scheduling challenges and the entire pajamas, brushing teeth, bedtime stories rigamaroll. (My husband says that all the time, is it even a word?)

Then, before I’ve had my eyes shut for much more than six hours, its time to start the whole process anew. So, basically, what I do is no different than every other (good) mother out there. My day is full plus some. I juggle, drive, and handle everything that comes along and fills up my day.

So naturally, here I am, writing an article. Exactly what I needed. One more item.