Organized Moms

I am not an organized mom. I’m the mom whose house always looks like a clutter bomb exploded in every room. It’s clean – but I wouldn’t advise you to eat anything that got dropped on the floor. Clean laundry very rarely makes it from the laundry basket to the dresser. I don’t iron – ever. Yard work always seems to get done right before the sun goes down. The trash makes it to the curb on time (most days), but the trash can might not make it back for a few days. I always seem to leave the house ten minutes late, so the kids never get dropped off or picked up on time (sorry guys). I have five kids, so I use that as my excuse for the barely controlled chaos that I call “life”.

I do, however, have a friend who is organized. My “life” gives her a headache. She is amazing. Her house is always clean. Her kids are always clean – and dressed! Meals at her house are always on time (and she actually makes three meals a day!), and none of it was cooked in the microwave. Her yard is always perfect. Her vehicles are always clean – inside and out. And she has six kids. Three of them aren’t even in school yet. She’s managed to keep her body in great shape, and when she leaves the house she actually has her hair and make-up on. You’ll never catch her in Wal-Mart in pajamas – never.

I call her Hitler.

Mainly because I’m jealous as hell. I know, intellectually, how to be organized. I just can’t seem to make it work. I make lists and plans. I constantly develop strategies for getting rid of the junk in my house, and getting just one meal a day on the table before eight pm. My kids would probably fall over and die if we sat down at a table (like normal people) instead of in the living room to eat.

Amazingly, this woman is not a bitch. She’s fun to hang around, knows how to have a good time, and has a great sense of humor. She’s a bigger redneck than I am, only “classier” (I know – the ultimate oxymoron).

She also married a guy who came with the ultimate set of “guy skills”. If he can’t build it or fix it, then it just can’t be done. I love my husband dearly and he’s perfect for me, but I don’t ask him to do home improvement projects. That would be like inviting Armageddon into the house. I call Angie’s husband to fix stuff. I have to do it on the sly, though. It feels a little bit like cheating to have another woman’s husband over to snake out the toilet that keeps having problems.

I need to get her over here – alone – and do the Vulcan “mind meld” thing. You know, steal all of her organizing secrets and absorb her scheduling prowess. If I don’t do it soon, I’m afraid I’ll wind up on one of those reality shows where people come in and marvel at the mess you’ve made and then force you to clean it up.

I’d like to say that being organized is the same as not being lazy, but that would be bad for me. Because, conversely, being “unorganized” would mean that I would have to get off my butt and do something about it, right? I’ll think about it tomorrow.