Up until very recently, I had always thought–nay, assumed–that I had a firm understanding of human nature and the English language. These two things are not inherently related; no. But together, they would lend a person (say, me) the insight necessary to interact with others in a productive manner, or at least to grasp why people do and/or say the things that they do.

Today it’s time to confront the truth. Thirty-three years of life; thirty-one of those spent talking nearly non-stop. And the reality is that my language skills or my interpersonal skills or–most likely–both are so insufficient as to be laughable.

It’s a marvel I’ve been able to fake my way through civilization for this long, really. A testament to my fortitude in the face of adversity, you might say. Or, you might just point and laugh. And I would deserve it, so go ahead.
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If I were a better mother (where’s that button, Jenny??), when my children arrived home after school, I would immediately go through their backpacks and lunchbags and deal with the contents therein. The lunchbags would be emptied and the ice packs set back into the freezer, the various art projects admired, the pine needles and acorns surreptitiously disposed of, permission slips signed, the next day’s items packed, etc.

And I fully intend to do this, every day, but I always end up sidetracked by other more important matters. Such as hollering, “Excuse me, were you raised in a barn? Close that door!” or commenting loudly to no one in particular that I’m sure whomever left this coat in a heap on the floor meant to hang it up, or suggesting that urinating is, in fact, a solo activity in need of neither an audience nor serenading.

Prioritizing can be a mother’s biggest challenge, as we all know.

Due to this lack of June Cleaver-ish handling of my children’s school belongings, the morning usually finds me empting out backpacks and doing my tried-and-true stint as a nagging, broken record.
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