My first thought was: I can do this.

Despite its lack of direction, and the newly apparent weakness of the personal pronoun, I was pleased.

Oliver sat at the foot of the bed in yesterday’s (last weeks) clothes and played with his yellow fortune teller. Our excellent forever sitter, who shouldn’t even be a sitter because she is a whole grown up person, but we will take her because why wouldnt we, had made them with the boys, along with a fort and played sudoku and other things that are theoretically fun to do with the kids.

His method was questionable, when he got to the mid level and it seemed as though I could choose my own number he instead disregarded the 4 choices and asked me my shoe size. Pre baby or post baby? I asked him. He looked back at me quizzically. Nine. He looked back at me in horror. Does he know enough about shoe size to realize this is disproportionately large? No. He is just realizing that my number doesn’t match his four choices. No matter. He counts out 9, completely off rhythm with his fingers and ends back at the same (here I almost typed screen) 4 selections (thats how it works when you count out an even number even when your partner says an odd number.)

Now it is the moment of truth. He opens the flap without having me choose anything and says.”You will have a bad hair day.” I attribute this fortune to the sitter, as my sons know not “bad hair day” as one has a stick straight shiny bowl cut, and the other has a weird mane of hair that charms everyone but his mother.

I take this as a cue to get things started right and skip the daily shower debate, and go for it. Coifed (fuck you fortune teller), sunscreened (people who ‘can do this’ dont get skin cancer), dressed to the shoes (sure one was upstairs and the other down, but I have corralled them on my size NINE feet) I am ready for the world.

I have my list. Office, Post office (to fed ex overnight the diaper bag with epi pen that the houseguests left here), bank, school to volunteer, accountant, art supply store, meeting. This is a day to get shit done. With good hair.

Oliver asks for a ride to school. Sure. I say, I am starting at the office which is less than a block from school. I gather my things, power of attorney for the accountant, check to deposit, sweet art work to mail to Theo, scream something at the kids and head to the van.

Halfway to school I realize I don’t have my computer. Yes, my bag was a bit light, but I have an 11 inch air. Its not called an ‘air’ for no reason. I call Steve to see if he can bring it to me. No answer. Oliver chimes in: ‘you should really be concentrating on driving.’ I snap back: ‘I’m stopped.’ (I was at a red light.) Then I backpedal. ‘You are right of course, driving is more important and you shouldn’t even text or use the phone while stopped at a light. ‘ I explain while hitting redial. (There has to be a loophole for a single tap while stopped at a light.)

Now Leo chimes in. ‘Do you want to know where your computer is?’ Why yes, yes I do want to know. ‘Do you know?’ I ask, not sure why this should surprise me after the wallet in the dryer and the car keys under the rug. He is a natural born squirreler.

‘It’s under the thing in the old bag on the counter.’

Obviously.

So I drop the kids at school, kicking Leo out of the van in his socks because at no point has he managed to get his sneakers on. I park at the office, set myself up, run to the coffee shop and have a ridiculous exchange where the clerk and I each say the wrong thing at least three times. We are laughing about it, and in the end I have my gluten free mixed berry muffin (ugh) and soy latte (double ugh) and have actually managed to pay him. See. I can do it.

So I bump into Lea and she makes me smile and I almost skip back to the office. But instead I skip going into the office and drive back home to find the computer under the thing in an old bag on the counter. Leo has clearly packed for “work” with his brothers ID card, a rainbow selection of sharpies, my computer and a snack.

Driving back to the office I pass the post office and pull in. This is how to get things done! And realize that I have neither Oliver’s letter/drawing (I have put those carefully in my office)  or the diaper bag. So I continue on.

And now its now.

I have not been to the bank, nor the post office, nor have I yet volunteered at school, the accountant is still outstanding and I havent prepped for my meeting.

But my hair?

Excellent.

See….I can do this.

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Anna Rosenblum Palmer is a freelance writer based in Denver, CO. She writes about sex, parenting, cat pee, bi-polar disorder and the NFL; all things inextricably intertwined with her mental health. In her free time she teaches her boys creative swear words, seeks the last missing puzzle piece and thinks deeply about how she is not exercising. Her writing can be found on Babble, Parent.co, Great Moments in Parenting, Ravishly, Good Men Project, Sammiches and Psych Meds, Playpen, Crazy Good Parent, and YourTango. She also does a fair amount of navel gazing on her own blog at annarosenblumpalmer.com.

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