Still Becoming

Somewhere along the way, I stopped being a person and became the operating system for an entire household.

I am apparently responsible for all known information, missing objects, scheduling, meal planning, emotional regulation, and the exact location of the ketchup at any given moment.

I don’t remember applying for this position, but here we are.

The qualifications are extensive.

Applicants must possess advanced item-locating abilities despite never having touched the missing object in question. This includes, but is not limited to:

• shoes
• backpacks
• chargers
• homework
• glasses
• water bottles
• permission slips
• the TV remote to every television in the house
• and, of course, ketchup

Especially ketchup.

I hear “Where’s the ketchup?” at least six times a day despite the fact that it has lived in the exact same refrigerator door compartment since approximately the Obama administration.

I am also expected to know where the TV remotes are at all times — even if I have not been home, watched TV, or interacted with the remote in any way.

Apparently my connection to these items is spiritual.

One of my twins once asked me what I was cooking while actively staring at the stove where I was cooking it.

Honestly, I respected the confidence.

Then there’s the grocery store situation.

Family members will casually announce:
“We need more _____.”

To which I reply:
“Write it on the grocery list.”

Simple enough, right?

Wrong.

Because after we return home from Walmart without the item, everyone acts shocked and disappointed until we eventually discover nobody actually wrote it on the list.

Apparently I was supposed to hear it, mentally log it, transfer it into permanent memory storage, and add it myself while simultaneously:

• cooking supper
• locating the ketchup
• settling sibling disputes
• remembering dentist appointments
• and answering “Mom” 53 times before 10am.

Speaking of sibling disputes, a family member once bought me a referee shirt as a joke because I said I felt like all I did was referee arguments between the kids all day.

Joke’s on them because I should probably wear it professionally at this point.

“On the play: unnecessary touching of sibling belongings.
Penalty: one dramatic meltdown and loss of tablet privileges.”

And heaven forbid I ever leave town overnight.

At that point I basically become an exhausted project manager preparing operational manuals for a small corporation.

I have to:

• write down the morning school routine
• lay out everyone’s clothes
• make reminder notes for the back door
• confirm backpack status
• confirm water bottle status
• confirm glasses status
• and somehow prepare everyone emotionally for my temporary absence like I’m deploying overseas instead of leaving for 24 hours.

The reminder notes alone sound ridiculous.

“Did you remember your backpack?”
“Did you grab your water bottle?”
“Where are your glasses?”

And despite all of this, someone will still text me halfway through the morning asking where something is.

And somehow…
I usually know.

That’s the worst part.

At this point I’m convinced moms develop supernatural abilities against their will.

Honestly, I don’t need a vacation.
I need a 12-step recovery program after one trip to Walmart, 10 uninterrupted minutes alone in my car, a Coke Zero, and a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup the size of my emotional support needs.

Benefits of this position include:

• random hugs
• couch snuggles
• occasional flowers on a Tuesday
• hearing your kids laugh uncontrollably
• and the rare magical moment when nobody needs anything from you for a full two minutes.

It’s exhausting.
It’s chaotic.
It’s loud.

But somehow it’s also the life I love most.