M@th%rf*ck*ng Pajama Day

 

M@th%rf*ck*ng Pajama Day

My Olympic sport is getting myself and two children ready and out the door in the morning. It is a shit sport, no medals are handed out, and my husband is an active bench warmer.

I do try hard. My girls’ hair is always done, clothes are almost always clean, teeth are brushed, and they each get a package of mini muffins and a piece of fruit for breakfast.  All while I am getting myself ready for work, packing up backpacks, finishing lunches, making coffee, packing the car, and waiting for my husband to sashay downstairs so we can begin the day. Bronze medal contender, right?  I do my best to remember the “item of the day” or which kid needs crazy hair, pajamas, or an extra t-shirt for tie dying.  Most days I get it right, but other days I don’t.  When that happens, the feeling of pure failure that I feel when I walk my beautifully dressed daughter into daycare and hear, “oh no, mom, you forgot it’s PAJAMA DAY” is overwhelming.

Goddammit I hate forgetting pajama day because your kid is an outcast the entire day and I might as well wear a scarlet letter on my chest showing all the other moms that I didn’t read the stupid calendar that hangs right inside the door I use to exit to my garage. It’s not like the day I forgot to send a packet of gelatin or the day I sent my husband’s XXL Polish and Proud shirt for “heritage day”.  This is simple and easy.  The kid wakes up in pajamas, change the undies (or not) and you are good to go!

Can a brain be full? I really feel that between work, home, my kids, and our schedules, my brain truly has reached capacity.

For the record, I don’t baby my kids. I try to teach them that shit happens and you need to roll with the punches.  Life isn’t perfect and you don’t always win, so I think it’s important not to be the parent that drives all the way home to get the pajamas and bring them back to school, however, it doesn’t change the fact that I feel like shit because my kid is sad as a result of me forgetting to do something.

Now I know what you are thinking…who gives a shit if the kid isn’t wearing pajamas. They will live and being different builds character, you will live, forgive yourself and move on with the day.  I want to do this, I really do, but when I feel that I fucked up, I think about it.  A lot.  To the point where I obsess over calendars, and dates, and lists in an effort to make sure I don’t forget anything else.  The only thing that really helps me is when other moms tell me their stories of how they screwed up, too.  Comparing stories with my fellow Olympians of the ridiculousness of the failure we feel daily is what makes me smile, give myself the gold, and look forward to sitting in the daycare parking lot and searching my trunk for an item that starts with the letter “X”.  FML