I’m the mom who forgets about the birthday party. Not in the quirky, lovable, hot-mess rom-com way — just in the regular way, where the invitation has been quietly sitting in my inbox beside its 20,957 best friends.I’m also the mom who doesn’t have one master family calendar but three.
Two backups for the one I’ll sure lose. I have a phone with 30 open tabs, none of which contain useful information.Dinner is often rice and beans.
Or cereal. Occasionally, a Hail Mary of defrosted chicken nuggets. I’m allergic to meal planning. The sheer cognitive toll of deciding what four people will eat every day until one of us dies is, frankly, unreasonable.I have ADHD, and intensive parenting — the competitive, Pinterest-soaked, color-coded-calendar version — is incompatible with my brain.
I do not optimize. I do not hover. I do not remember which child needs a permission slip signed by Tuesday. I cannot be the neurotypical Super Mom.But what I lack in consistency, I make up for in presence.
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