My children are headed back to school and it’s time for me to get back to work. But I’m having a hard time getting any writing done because I lost my focus over the summer. Whenever I try to concentrate, the joy of performing Back-to-School mommy miracles distracts me.
I get caught up in moving my 11th grader out of the Spanish class she didn’t like and into the one with the other teacher – even though they don’t make changes for ‘teacher preferences,’ setting up carpool for my middle son so he can come right home after the bell rings, and getting my youngest into the new charter school, the one where they learn experientially instead of doing worksheets and math drills and testing. My mommy miracles make me feel productive—and proud.
I still live off the time when I got our flight to return to the gate so I could retrieve my son’s blanket. The plane had already been cleaned and the passengers had all departed. We were at the other end of the airport picking up a rental car when my son realized he didn’t have Blankie—this was years ago—and I burned up my cell phone and my feet running back to the terminal and begging and pleading with the gate agent. She disappeared and came back holding a plastic American Airlines bag with a faded blue blankie at the bottom. I hugged her. The kids still talk about that one.
That’s the thing with mommy miracles: instant gratification. You need Book #2 in the series? It’s held under my name at the library. Forgot your lunch? I’m on it. Compass and protractor? Already ordered from Amazon Prime. I just check-check-check things off the list. And when I appear like some heavenly apparition holding the lost shoe, forgotten jacket, or tragically misplaced cell phone, the adoration is instantaneous. “Mom, you’re the best!” “Thank you, Mommy (even my 16 year old will say that if the lost object was sufficiently valuable)!” Or, “Mom, you’re amazing!” My heart swells and I think, gee, my children really appreciate me. I know: it’s pathetic.
The other issue is that mommy miracles aren’t scary. They don’t make me push outside my comfort zone. They don’t require me to “be brave.” It’s all gratification and no fear. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I like that. My writing goals are larger and of a more personal nature. I have to be willing to take risks to see them come true. I am a big fan of professional risk-taking but why pitch an essay to my dream publication when I can find a lost lunchbox? The editor could turn me down, or worse yet, ignore me. But my kids? They’ll glance up from the X-Box and say, “Mom, you’re awesome.”
And that’s the magic of mommy miracles: the instantaneous appreciation as something good happens, brought to you by Mom. And I don’t have to stretch. But now that the kids are back to school, there’ll be fewer distractions. I might have to get some work done. Maybe even take a risk. Too bad nobody sleeps with a blanket anymore.