It was the day of the school party, and I came in the parking lot on two wheels.
I think I still had my house slippers on, but my hair was at least combed.
I made the turn into the school like Uncle Jessie from the Dukes of Hazzard. It was imperative that I get the party tray to my daughter Elsie’s class on time.
I had signed up to be one of the party Moms for Easter. And I remembered it the night before.
“James, you need to step on it son,” I said to my eldest son as he put the last strawberry on the bamboo stick. “We have got to get those fruit skewers to the kids.”
James, my dependable son, was like the Road Runner when it came to piercing those fruit pieces with the wooden sticks.
“We got it,” he said. “You got a head start this morning so I only had to do a few.”
Seconds later, James threw his hands in the air like a cowboy who just tied his calf at a rodeo.
We high-fived each other and explained to Elsie that we would buy her ice cream after school if she didn’t mention that we prepared the skewers in the car while going down Highway 16.
I parked the car and applied a fresh coat of lip gloss. It was game time. I could not, absolutely could not, walk into the school looking like the basketcase I felt like that morning.
The Pattersons strutted down the school hall like we had everything together. We had fruit skewers, fresh too. I know they were fresh because I bought them at the grocery store right before I got there.
I passed a few other parents who held their heads high. On their plates were cute cakes shaped like cars with Peep rabbits in the drivers seat. There were plastic bags of sweets shaped like Easter carrots. There were Robin Nests filled with chocolate. I even saw pastel-colored deviled eggs.
And there I was...with fruit sticks.
“Just tell the kids these sticks are called Sparkle Pops,” I told Elsie.
The fruit was sparkling, but only because it still had the water from the grocery store sprayer.
I delivered those Sparkle Pops like they were the next best thing since sliced bread.
And....the kids loved them. They ate every single one of them.
They had no idea that I put them together at the last minute. They had no idea that I had let work, ball practices and bills consume my thoughts that week. Yes, I dropped the ball when it came to being prepared.
Yes, I am a “hot mess Momma.”
But you know what?
That’s fine.
When I shot up from a dead sleep at midnight with the realization that I was “party Mom,” I got to work.
I made a plan and Elsie had a presentable snack a mere few hours later.
Why?
That’s what “hot mess” mothers do. Trust me, I know. My own mother was one.
My children don’t arrive at play practices, perfectly groomed and in costume. No, we run in like Olympic track runners while we pin donkey tails on the backs of bottoms and smooth our hair with the palm of a wet hand.
My children don’t arrive at ball games, calm and early. No, we jump out of the truck with cleats hanging from around our neck, still tucking in our uniform.
We don’t bring party snacks that we discovered on Pinterest several weeks ago, covered in sprinkles and perfection. No, we prepare them in the car on the way to school while thinking of a snazzy nickname to call our creation.
We don’t arrive at family picture day with freshly-ironed clothes and sparkling smiles. No, we arrive trying to wipe what we think is coffee off of our shirts while trying to clip a gigantic bow on a head of hair somehow got some grass in it.
Yes, I am a hot mess Momma. But my kids and husband don’t care. That is what makes it work.
They simply see me as a Momma who gets things done in her own special way because she loves her family.
Happy Mother’s Day to all the hot mess mothers out there.
Truth be known, we make this parenting thing a little more fun.
