I Don't Know How You Do It

"I don't know how you do it", they say in a half-admiringly, half-dismissive way, and I wave them off, not out of rudeness but out of a sense of confusion. While many things in my life are far from easy, the things that make people say this phrase are among the easier. So I feel, when I hear this, that I must be missing something. If I were doing all the things I should be doing, would I still be able to accomplish these obviously extraneous tasks? If by making elaborate cupcakes, I am forgetting to clean the disposal, or by spending time with the PTA, am I forgetting to clean behind the stove? I am absurdly guilty on both counts, among many others. I am both envious and curious of those women upon whose floors you may eat, or whose curtains are freshly laundered, and beds always made. I forget the tiny things and they grow. I have long expired salad dressings in my fridge, and an old doctor bill I have forgotten to pay on my desk. My van is a veritable explosion of forbidden fast foods, legos and now ruined books and school papers. When pulling into my garage, I must have everyone exit on the left, for the right has yet to be cleaned and is too cluttered. My boys are often naked, or otherwise unkempt, and my own clothes have expired along with my salad dressings. My kitchen sink is rarely empty, nor is my dryer, and there are says when we are down to ketchup and syrup for dinner. When a friend stops for an unexpected visit, I find myself wondering if the toilet has been flushed, if there are undergarments on light fixtures, or if I had remembered to Magic Eraser the sharpie in the Family Room, and the answer is often no. My basement is a treasure trove of broken ornaments, tattered poetry, written in my angst filled college days, yearbooks I dare never to open, and books I will most likely never reread. I have bins of clothes outgrown by my ever growing children, that I intend on selling or donating, that I just can't seem to find the time to sort through.

I throw enormous parties for each of the kids' milestones, and throw in several for myself, as well. I bake cakes for people and events in which I am scarcely involved. I braid braids in Morgan's hair to rival the women in Medieval times. I make large and often gourmet meals for my family, with large and gourmet messes. I own a dog in the second largest breed alive. I write blogs about the minutiae in my life. I chair half a dozen events in the children's school, and hold the position of president. But things fall out of every closet in my home when the doors are opened, and my Christmas lights will be up until the snow melts.

Yesterday, an assistant in the class I am teaching informed me I obviously have too much time on my hands. It gave me pause because it was the antithesis of everything I have heard from everyone else since the twins were born. I was slightly offended, and I realized that I want to exist between the two statements. I want not to be noticed for the things I do, for fear of being found out for the things I don't.

I am mightily lazy, and abundantly self-serving. But I adore my children and am hopefully instilling good values, a sense of self, and allowing them to feel secure and loved. The microwave can wait, the weeds can grow, the cobwebs can droop. This is how I do it.