November 22, 2007

Confessions from the Carpool

One day at a time

By Shana McLean Moore
Times Columnist

Think what you will about my liver when I say this, but the recovering alcoholics have it all figured out. While I’ll admit that I make enough noise with my recycling that my neighbors wish I’d take my trips to the bin before 10 p.m. or after 9 a.m., I’m not actually in need of an AA-type of intervention.

Truth is, like most moms, I am more in need of a Type A intervention. But before you start rolling your eyes and suppressing the gag reflex, I do not tell you this with an air of smugness. I am not one of those natural uber-doers who say with un-caffeinated perkiness: “Gosh! I just can’t seem to sit still. I simply have to keep moving and do, do, do.” Frankly, I prefer to spell “do” with a double “o.”

You see, there are no bragging rights when you are thrust into the Type A lifestyle of constant carpooling, science fair experiments and “group” middle school projects that somehow fall solely on your child’s lap—along with the demands of your own part-time job and a house permanently in need of maids, merry or otherwise. Show me a mother who wouldn’t like to be a Type B so she’d have a twenty-sixth of a chance to catch some Zs.

It should come as no surprise, I suppose, that I discovered my kinship with society’s decidedly sober as I followed the car in front of me closely enough to read the small print of their bumper sticker. Some people call this tailgating—I prefer to call it dedication to getting my daughter to soccer practice on time so she won’t have to run an extra lap for being late. But there it was, spelled out in front of me, an even greater warning than the blazing break lights that flanked it on either side: “One Day at a Time.”

By golly, what a concept. In fact, as I mulled it over, I could actually hear the collective voice of my psyche and my day planner heaving a harmonized sigh of relief. And no, the Backstreet Boys weren’t on the radio at the time. It was nothing less than my own personal Oprah Winfrey “Aha” moment, delivered unto me before I could plow into the car in front of me.

The very idea of focusing on getting today done right before swirling around like the Tasmanian Devil about tomorrow sang to me like the talents of Andrea Bocelli, Michael Bublé and Pink all rolled into one. Yes, this does amount to the sound of angels screaming at you.

I need to slow down, stop racing from activity to activity, worrying about tomorrow’s to-do list before I have finished today’s.

However, armed as I am with the knowledge that it’s risky to go cold turkey as one tries to change their toxic ways, I figure we stressed-out moms ought to wean ourselves with a 12-step program of our own.

But let’s face it, ladies: Who has time for 12? We can get this done in six.

1—We must accept that we are powerless over our children’s schedules —that our lives have become unmanageable. Anyone who has passed Whining 101 laments this nightly as she exhales between sips of Chardonnay.

2—We must come to believe that a Power greater than ourselves can restore us to sanity. Look, the only power that can free us from this chaos is an acceptance letter from the college of our kid’s choice. For those of us still in the application-padding phase of academia, who won’t see said letter for another five years (or 1,825 more days, which we have now promised to experience One. Day. At. A. Time.), this is enough to put us on track for the original 12-step Program.

3—We need to make a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. Personally, I have taken inventory and have determined that I am fresh out of patience. I have also realized that as crazy as my life is, I will miss the heck out of the frenzy when the kids are gone. I believe the clinical term for this is masochism.

4—We must admit to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs. I have served many meals that consist of only one color—that color was never green. I catch myself saying, “Because I said so” even though I despised my parents for the same lack of an explanation. I do not censor songs with explicit lyrics because my kids hear all of the taboo words from me, their own personal Madonna, whenever I stub my toe.

5—Humbly ask Him to remove our shortcomings. Since that could take a while, could He please just make my children mute from 3 p.m. until their homework is completed?

6—Make a list of all persons we have harmed, and become willing to make amends to them all. “I’m sorry I forgot to pack you a snack and wash your soccer jersey so your teammates wouldn’t keep asking you ‘What’s that smell?’ I’m sorry I like to let your friends know that I can sing every word to High School Musical, in character. I promise I’ll never do these things again.

No, wait—I promise I won’t do those embarrassing things today.” After all, I am taking these things One Day at a Time.

Shana McLean Moore is a resident of Almaden Valley. She invites you to listen to her free podcast and read more of her columns by visiting www.caffeiantedponderings.com.