They are the types that have large calendars with all of their children’s activities written down three months in advance and are the ones who pack daily balanced, nutritious lunches for their children with sandwiches cut into triangles. They drive minivans with soccer ball stickers in the back windows or “My Child is an Honor Student at _____,” decals.
I’m definitely not an uber mom, although each year I vow I will be more informed, more pro-active, more prepared.
But alas, I am again the last one to sign the kids up for sports and/or activities, calling the “organizer” breathless and panicked to make sure that sign-ups are still open. I am the one who never really knows what is going on because I forgot to write it on the calendar. I’m the one who picks up my teenager from junior high and tries to exit through the “entrance only” part of the parking lot (despite the squad car sitting there blockading the entrance); thus, embarrassing the said teenager to the point of sending him to a crumpled, defeated heap on the floor of the SUV as I try to negotiate my way out by way of hysterically begging and pleading ignorance.
Now that the third child has come, I am operating at a frightening “seat of my pants” type mode. The best I can hope for is mediocrity with a tinge of desperation.
As my children get older, it hasn’t come any easier with practice and I don’t seem to have learned from my past mistakes.
I am a little envious of the uber moms sometimes, usually when I am running late to somewhere I didn’t realize I needed to be until thirty minutes beforehand. But then, as I think about it, the envy is replaced by a tinge of pride in myself that I found out where I needed to be before the event/practice/signup was over.
I have made a decision that perhaps next year I will strive to be a little more uber; this year has already started as a bit of a bust.