Memoirs of a SuperMom

            Although the title might be self-proclaimed, I must argue that it is not an overstatement. Well…maybe a small overstatement. However, this title puts me in good company as the circle of modern super heroes I know is ever expanding. If you are a mom, you know what I am talking about. If you have a mom, stop reading right now and go buy her some flowers! Just kidding… Sort of. Superman has got nothing on the life of a mom.
            I am a proud wife and mother of three. My eldest is about to turn eleven. His teacher thinks he is doing a great job in sixth grade. By the way, his teacher is me! I have homeschooled all my children from the beginning and I wouldn’t have it any other way. My middle son is six and definitely has the “middle child syndrome.” He is three parts peacekeeper and one part informer. That makes him the most lovable tattle-tail I know. The princess of the family is three years old and would eat every vegetable on her plate if I could make them pink or purple. At my house, family life is daily life. Honestly, our lives couldn’t be richer if we won the lottery. Of course, our pocket books would be a heck of a lot happier!
             How does all this turn me into “SuperMom?” Well, a typical day at my house turns out something like this.
            My ears are trained to perk up before I even drag out of bed. I can only hope I am going to manage a few minutes of alone time to start a pot of coffee prior to being bombarded by requests from the short people with whom I live. I try to squeeze in a quick look through my email and definitely by then the demands have begun. Once mouths have been fed and at least one mess cleaned up, it is time for school.
            The eldest needs prodding to get through math. The next is asking how to do all his work at once because he is determined to break the world record for completing workbook pages. Meanwhile, the princess has decided that she is starving and thirsty ten minutes after breakfast. After attempting to stall her off, she makes it clear who is in charge of the meal schedule. Of course, now the floor is covered in cereal and she has effectively gotten my attention. 
            If I can fool myself into thinking that the three are occupied, I’ll turn on the TV and say a small prayer that there are no video cameras rolling. I am sure that my exercise moves look more like an ape swinging around in a cage than the instructor on the video. She, by the way, should be professionally evaluated because I am sure she is a pathological liar. She keeps repeating how much fun we are having and tries to get me to buy that she has three children. Yeah right! Never in the video do I see her children. My boys, however, have miraculously finished their work and are now engaged in a nerf battle using me as a shield. My daughter likes the music on the video and begins practicing her latest dance moves. This quickly turns into slam dancing as she slams into me during one of my graceful kick moves. It is now time for the crying. (Not me crying, but don’t think it didn’t cross my mind.) I desperately try to finish the video with a child on my hip, figuring I should lose at least one pound for all my effort.
            Still dripping sweat, I manage to get the three back on track and think about which task I should tackle first. Will it be laundry, dishes, bills, picking up the house, cleaning out the fridge, sending out an overdue email about the weekly science co-op I lead that starts in two weeks, working on the television show I am directing, calling my mother, grandmother, sister, or father with whom visits are long overdue, or (and least likely) get a shower and put on some real clothes. Laundry usually wins since I know it will take all day and I can talk on the phone while I get started on it. If the house is lucky, it might even get picked up a little before I have to hang up to solve the problems of my children’s lives.
            The repetitive squawking of the little mouths reminds me that they require multiple feedings everyday. Lucky for me, they like peanut butter and jelly. Well, at least they tolerate it without complaining. After lunch, school must be finished. If the stars all line up, the three can go upstairs at the same time and rest, affording me at least five minutes of peace to have a bite or two of lunch. Yes, my children do nap / rest / read for more than five minutes but it only takes about that long before one or more of them wants to know if it is time to get up yet. When I finally relent, the kids once again take control of the house and yard. Oh yeah, and they are hungry again.
            Around 3:30, husband walks in and I accost him for conversation, grateful to hear sentences that don’t begin with “Mommy.” At some point my brain clicks back into gear and I realize I have yet again forgotten to pull meat out of the freezer. I now spend thirty minutes scrambling to find something other than mac and cheese for dinner. Finally, I beg my husband to traverse to the grocery store because I still look like a homeless person since I missed out on a shower and am still donning sweatpants and a stained t-shirt.
            After again filling the bellies of the kiddos, I am exhausted. Before total collapse, I need to put away the clean laundry, set the coffeepot, re-pick up the living room, get a small amount of work done on the business, send an email or two to friends, and hopefully veg out in front of the TV for a few minutes. Soon my eyes revolt against me and force me to fall into bed. I say a prayer of thanks for the adventures of my day and a prayer of endurance so I can get up and do it all over again tomorrow.
            Eat your heart out Superman!