Life is Too Short for Matching Mittens

This morning was like most mornings.

Hectic. Yelling. Scarfing down frozen pancakes and trying to throw blueberries on their plates so I can non-hypocritically ask them to make "healthy choices" today.

L says, "Mommy, can you make sure I take a blanket and books to school this week because last time you forgot and I was the only kid in school without a blanket and books?" (Can your heart break while you roll your eyes?)

A says, "Can I take a lollipop to school for snack time?"

L says, "Mommy, why do I always have to borrow pencils from other kids and I don't have my own?"

I say (FINALLY): Hey, YOU. Do YOU think lollipops are a wise snack choice? AND YOU, I don't know when you run out of pencils, so I might have forgotten to send in a blanket THAT ONE TIME but some things have got to be your responsibility. TELL ME when you run out of pencils. How else would I know? BESIDES, where exactly do all your pencils go?

And then the bus pulls up and L is halfway down the driveway before I realize her toothbrush sits on the counter, untouched. And A is climbing into the car when she says, "Mommy, why don't I have gloves?"

YOU DO HAVE GLOVES. YOU DO! I'm failing at this mom thing. I mean, it's thirty degrees out and NO ONE HAS GLOVES ON and L is gone and it's too late to worry about her hands (or her teeth) (or her choices) (or her pencils).

I run back inside and dig through the glove bin only to find this:

None of these things is just like the other.

I almost cried because what kind of mother sends her kid to school with two different gloves on?

But, I don't cry. Instead, I take this picture. This ridiculous, funny, hopefully relatable picture. I wonder where all the one-socks, one-gloves and one-flip-flops go to party? All together?

Also, how lucky are we that we once owned NINE PAIRS OF GLOVES. That's four and a half pairs of gloves per kid. I mean, arguably, this is horrendously wasteful and gratuitous. There are people in this world who don't own gloves and if they do, they hold onto their one pair as though their life depends on it. Sometimes it does.

I have two choices: scour the house for matching gloves, cranky and hot OR go with the...ahem, hand I've been dealt. I take the whole pile to A and say, PICK TWO!

Tomorrow, I might make a different choice. It might matter to me, tomorrow, that my kids look socially acceptable, wearing clothes that match. I know that I can't rate my motherhood based on what I'm not doing anymore. I will not be defined by my failings.

I look in the rear view mirror and A has her arms waving out in front of her and she is LAUGHING. She laughs all the way to school.

Gratitude hides in small moments and sometimes, very small hands.