Huzzah for the Slacker Mom

My name is Jennifer and I am a Slacker Mom.  We have a club.  And jackets.  I'll get you one.  And an application.  It's a 3x5 card that says "Hi My Name is . . . " and you can fill in the blank with whatever you want. Or not.  No one is going to collect it. I keep trying to leave the club, however, and I don't know why I do this.  It is the BEST club out there.  We can wear our pajamas all day, take naps when we are falling asleep on our feet, and have brownies for breakfast.  Oh sure, we'll regret it, but c'mon, this isn't the Marathoning Mom team.

But for whatever reason, once a year or so I'll claw my way out of our communal pj pit and drag myself over to the Overcaffeinated Mom sorority and try to join up there.  Owing to their excess of exuberance, they are always happy to greet new pledges.  They swap ideas for making matching family t-shirts when (the entire family) is cheering on their kindergartener soccer player who is, in fact, chasing a bug around in circles.  They exchange Pinterest boards on freakishly adorable birthday party themes and DIY hacks for bento box lunches that can convince any kid to eat raw kale when swirled into a faux lollipop.  Their kids always show up to school looking fresh from the salon and ON TIME.  And they really are nice people.  But gah, I'm exhausted just writing this paragraph.

As I said, about once a year, I pull up my socks (fuzzy, bright green, my favorite) and decide I'm going to do better.  And it's generally about this time of year because, you know, Back To School and all.  I get a bit stern with myself for not doing a better job, I carefully review all of my past failures and identify (or so I think) where I put a foot wrong.  I resolve to make our family more supportive of each other by having everyone cheer each other on at their sporting or club events, which they will all attend. I make plans to create idyllic family excursions and memories that will bring each of my children to tears twenty years from now as they sit lovingly by my side and reminisce on their hallowed childhoods. I research recipes and purchase all needed supplies to make hot and healthy breakfasts and all the aforesaid amazing lunches.

And I truly make the effort.  

And I never get past September.

Wanna know why?  Them.  It's them.  It's really not me, it's them.  

I present my evidence to the jury.

The Support Team.  It's the start of a new football season and this particular son is a senior.  We WILL all go and support him in his last season of football.  While my boys are athletic, let's be real, none of them is going to play college, let alone the NFL.  This is the last season.  It's a home game.  We get there early and get good seats (we live in a small town and Friday Night Lights are very real here).  I packed along stadium seats for everyone and homemade hot chocolate in thermoses and the good camera and blankets and a tub of my world-class chocolate chip cookies.  Before we have even sat down, Younger Brother 1 (YB1) sees a friend and takes off before I can find out where he's going.  YB2 glares at the folded stadium chair and whines that no one has opened it for him.  YB3 starts digging in my purse for concession stand funds.  Hubby has decided to be in charge of photos and has wandered off with the camera, not to be seen again until the end of the game. YB4 is staring into the middle distance with his ear pods in looking cool because many females of a similar age are in the vicinity. I take a calming breath, unfold the byzantine complexity of a stadium chair with one motion, hand the container of cookies to YB3, and send YB4 to go grab YB1.  He does so.  By the hair.  We now have smacking and yelling going, in the midst of an endless line of lifelong town residents approaching the century mark with their walkers coming to see the game.  Excuses and apologies are given, seats are taken, locations and check in points are made, hot chocolate is handed out.  I look at the scoreboard.  We're half way through the first half and I haven't even located my player yet. I have seen zero amazing sportsishness from my senior son because of the YBs.  Why did I think this was a good idea?

The Cherished Vacation.  It's Spring Break.  I decide we should do something different and fun, something the Brothers will enjoy but not expect.  I plan a tour of Weird Seattle.  (Honestly, you should do this.) We are touring with the Express version of our family, with just me and three Brothers in tow this time, so I'm hoping for less chaos.  Please stop laughing now, my intentions were serious.  The main difficulty this time is the cast of the players.  In this version, we have the Anarchist, the Puritan, and the Intolerant Young Adult.  We visit Underground Seattle.  The Anarchist insists on walking off the designated path, touching every item labeled "Do Not Touch" and saying obnoxious things to passersby.  Oh and deliberately farting in close quarters. The Puritan calls him on the carpet for each and every infraction, including a fully detailed description of his future life in prison due to his pernicious ways.  The Intolerant Young Adult slowly builds steam.  We exit the Underground Tour and look at our walking map.  The Anarchist announces the only place he is willing to go is the Patagonia store.  To buy a sticker.  Such are the mysterious ways of the Middle Schooler.  The Puritan declares he will walk no further as he is too exhausted live another 5 minutes, let alone walk anywhere.  The Intolerant Young Adult announces he will beat both of them to a jelly if they don't shut up and begin walking.  Now repeat this for every stop on the tour, for three days in a row.  I vow to return and do the tour again.  Alone.

The Homemade Delicious and Nutritious Lunch.  I am a bit of an addict when it comes to cooking shows.  I try to ration myself because it can get a bit silly with the sheer quantity of baked goods that fill my house within a day when I go on a baking bender.  So when I have a bonafide reason to bake fun stuff, I feel truly justified in my excesses.  And, from all previous experiences, one really can't go overboard when feeding the growing human male, owing to the constancy of the song of their species, "I'm starving," and "what do we have to eat," and "there's nothing to eat," whilst standing in a fully stocked, modern, American kitchen.  Being an experienced BoyMom, I know there are some key elements to keeping them fed and happy.  The best option is something hot that involves an animal protein. (Think pizza.)  Sandwiches and cold cereal are also good options, provided you have LOTS of bread, cheese, meat, peanut butter, jam, milk, and cereal.  Having to drop everything and produce (ideally, in their minds) a full lasagne dinner at 2 in the afternoon when they're feeling a mite peckish is never going to happen, so I thought I'd be an Awesome Mom and make a batch of Ham & Cheese Brioche rolls and have them all ready to go in the fridge.  Then, when the Hunger Monster attacks, the son in question can just grab one and either eat it cold or microwave it for 30 seconds and quell the beast.  Guess what.  Those amazing rolls sat in my fridge for TEN DAYS.  They ate 2.  They are now as stale as old playdough.  Their answers? "I wasn't hungry for that."  "I forgot about them." "What? I didn't know you made them?" (This boy had eaten one already.) SKVBEIFHEWJBLVUSHKL!!!!!!!

And I recall that I have done this before. Repeatedly.  I HAVE made the effort to be the Super Mom and my kids do this.  ALLLLL of this.  Every time.  So with a cleansing sigh of relief, I joyously dive back into the Slacker Mom Pit of Comfortable PJs.  I may not do everything perfectly and beautifully and Pinterest-worthy, but I do what works for MY family.  They are just fine with not having their entire family at every event, finding their own entertainment while I hang out by a pool or beach, and eating Hot Pockets by the casefull.  It works for us.  Huzzah for the Slacker Moms!!