Type A-

Me, age 40

 

My friend Janet owns a company called Type A, LLC.

 

As the name indicates, Janet is bewilderingly well-organized. She has an MBA and the uncanny ability to remain poised at all times. She helps small businesses get a better handle on the details of their everyday operations – think budgeting, audit preparation and website content, for instance – and she does this while appearing to never perspire.  

 

I used to be like Janet.

 

I am not anymore.

 

Not so long ago, I balanced my checkbook to the penny. I swept up dust-bunnies from under the bed before they could procreate. Piles of things – junk mail, bills, banana peels, socks – made me nervous.

 

But then my kids came along, and it became necessary for me to resign as a Type A human being. I’ve discovered, in fact, that the words “mom” and “Type A” don’t cozy up together real well within the same sentence – for me, anyway.

 

My new status, I’m proud to announce, is Type A-. And, to be completely honest, on my craziest days I am closer to Type B+.

 

I have a firm and capable grasp on what needs to get done to keep my home and family in basic functioning order: I feed my kids, get them to where they need to be (more or less) on time, and make sure they’re wearing clean underwear. But beyond that, it’s a crapshoot. Dust bunnies? They’re everywhere. Stop by my house and you can pet one. Where’s the toilet paper? you ask? We’re all out, but I’m going to Costco the day after tomorrow. In the meantime, just use Kleenex. Is that the interior of your car, Laura, or a peat bog? Both are correct: it’s the interior of my car and it’s a peat bog. It smells like decaying plant matter, no?

 

It’s nice to see how far I’ve come. At one time, these things would have put me into a state of apoplexy. Now, I view them as the signposts of a very full and frenzied life with children. Just recently, for example, my sister-in-law Betsy was visiting from out of town. Like Janet, Betsy is supremely disciplined and put-together; I’m positive she never misplaces her postage stamps or drives an automobile that stinks like decomposing vegetation. Betsy was enjoying a glass of wine and keeping me company in the kitchen, all while I ignored the dirty dishes on the counter, failed to mop up a pot of boiled-over pasta, and yelled ineffectually at the kids, who were running in and out of the room screeching. Betsy asked if I needed a hand. “No thanks,” I replied with a cheerful shrug. “It’s all good!” She looked at me, askance. “What has happened to you?” she said. “Kids have happened to me,” I answered. She nodded sagely, clinked my wineglass, and toasted me for having loosened up so much.

 

As Betsy and I downed our Pinot Grigio, I said a silent thank-you to my burgeoning Type A- approach to life. I didn’t necessarily ask for it, but I’m doing my best to make the most of it.

 

I’d like to think that if Janet herself sat down with me to discuss my own process improvements, strategic planning and communications strategies, she’d pat me on the back and tell me I’m doing OK. My efforts are a far cry from perfect Type A work, but they’re enough to get by. And right now, that’s all that matters.

 

Happy Mother’s Day to all of you fabulous moms out there, whether you are Type A, Type B, or somewhere in between.