I was recently driving along with my two young children in tow, rocking the minivan when I came upon a roadblock. No worries I thought, and even though at another time of my life I might have been apprehensive about passing through a police checkpoint, at this time I was not. I got this.
I pulled up to the gruff-looking peacekeeper, and I put on my best, and most genuine smile. “Good evening officer.” I chimed.
“License, registration, and proof of insurance Ma’am.” He replied briskly.
“Of course.” I responded, and despite no wrong doing I felt my stomach lurch as I opened my wallet quickly to retrieve my driver’s license.
I handed him the plastic rectangle smiling all the while, and I noticed he continued to look at me expectantly. “Oh yes. Registration.”
Glove box, right? I asked myself, and I leaned towards the van’s large passenger side compartment. My seatbelt strained as I opened the box, and I released my safety harness to conclude my retrieval.
As I opened the compartment an avalanche of fast food napkins poured out onto the floor, and I briefly wondered why when I needed one I could never find even a single, scrap of tissue with which to wipe a dirty face, or clean an unexpected spill. Yet at this moment I had enough paper product to go into business with Bounty.
I stole a sideways glance at my new officer friend, and I didn’t miss the impatient look on his face as he consulted his wristwatch.
I returned my eyes to the crammed glovebox, and I was confronted with stacks upon stacks of envelopes and papers inside. I reached quickly for the one on top, and my heart sailed with glee when I saw the registration inside. I handed it over quickly.
“Ma’am. You do know this is your old one, right? The date is from two years ago.”
I looked back at the glovebox crestfallen.
He added, “It’s fine ma’am. I saw your sticker on the tag. Just proof of insurance please.”
Suddenly my mind swirled back to a few weeks prior when I had received my renewed insurance cards in the mail. I had proudly labeled the envelope so it would be easy to identify. Then I had placed it on my desk until I could put a copy in each vehicle’s glovebox.
In that moment I realized that on the desk the envelope remained. But there was no way I was letting on, and I quickly resumed my search through the stack of papers. I figured I could find an old one or something, and I searched in vain for my insurance company’s tell-tell logo.
I realized then that it was absolutely criminal. My life. The lack of organization and attention to detail should have been against the law. And as I sifted through the chaos of my glovebox I considered just surrendering to the police right then and there. I pictured myself holding out my limp wrists. “Take me in officer. My life is in shambles!”
I imagined it looking like this as he carted me away:
But I knew in reality it would look more like this:
I mean it wasn’t. My life wasn’t in shambles per say, but when in the midst of a situation like this one it felt that way. It felt like I was floating around on a sea of circumstance, barely able to stay afloat.
I thought back to my life before motherhood, and I remembered a very well put together woman. Her clothes were typically stain-free, she always looked rested, and her glovebox was pristine. And it certainly held all the information required during a routine traffic stop.
Lately I felt quite the opposite. Even forgetting this issue of a chaotic glove compartment, the rest of my life didn’t seem to fare any better. My sink was always overflowing, and certainly my laundry basket too. I grew tired of stepping on items of discarded food, and saying things like, “where are your shoes” or “where did I put my keys.”
I couldn’t make a trip to the grocery store without forgetting something while I was there, and lists didn’t seem to help improve the situation.
Time was elusive, and running late was my norm. I consistently had twenty things on my ever-growing to-do list, but usually only completed two.
It was criminal how bad I was at this mommy thing, and it should have been against the law for me to proceed. In fact I feared if this officer had heard the way I yelled at my precious offspring that very morn he probably would have thrown me under the jail.
Indeed I didn’t need a trial. I had already convicted myself. Guilty! Guilty of not being more. Not being better.
For some reason at that moment a tiny, sweet voice erupted from the backseat. Up until this moment a surprising silence had reigned.
“I love you Momma.” My four year old daughter whispered, and her words were just enough. They were just enough rope to pull me out of my self-inflicted pit of despair. On second thought, not despair, but rather self-loathing. Regardless, in that moment, as always, her sweet sentiment rescued me.
It brought to mind the real crime that threatened my mommy heart. It was criminal when I forgot. When I forgot for a moment what was important. It certainly wasn’t an organized life, complete with charts and color-coded labels on the children’s drawers. I looked in the rearview mirror, and I saw the faces of my babies. And that was really all that mattered.
It certainly didn’t cease all frustration, no matter how adorable, but it soothed it. I could be accosted by the worst kind of day, where everything that could go wrong did, but one sincere moment spent holding my babies seemed to make the ugly stuff fade away. Fade away until it didn’t really seem so bad after all.
In those moments gazing at their angelic faces it felt completely worth it. And despite all the chaos and profound change it felt wonderful. It felt good!
I looked up at the awaiting officer and handed him a weathered Farm Bureau member card. “That’s all I got.”
He looked at the card for a moment, and then, “it’s okay ma’am. My wife and I have three children. You have a nice night now.” And he waved me along.
I put on my seatbelt, and as I drove off into the dark night I reveled in the beautiful mess that was my life with young children. It was disorganized, slightly chaotic, and often times exasperating. But it was just perfect.
I realized then if I was guilty of anything then I was guilty of being supremely content, and at peace with my disheveled life. Although as I drove away I also realized my inspection sticker was expired. Sigh.
Patricia Stevens says
Truly love reading your blog Brie! You put to words what so many have gone through.
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you so much!