Oh my. How do I capture a day in my life – a day in my disorganized, frenzied, hectic, full-of-laughter, fake it ’til you make it, life?
Well, my mornings are fairly predictable. I make my boys (Max, 8, and Finn, 5) breakfast and, while they’re eating, spray their heads with a water bottle while trying to tame the Flock of Seagulls bed head that they have going on. Finn inspects said hair and claims that a renegade stray strand or two make him look like Alfalfa, so I lather on some gel and call it good enough while we argue about whether it’s coat-weather and head to the bus stop. We wait for the bus and I ask Max if he brushed his teeth because I can actually see the fuzz on them. He considers lying for a moment, but then eventually admits “I forgot,” because an eight-year-old boy brain is apparently incapable of remembering anything that isn’t directly related to Minecraft. They scream with excitement when they see the bus turn the corner like it’s going to take them to Hogwarts and then blow me kisses from the window (my favorite part of the morning).
As soon as that bus pulls away, no two days of mine look the same. As a freelance writer, author, and new Editor-in-Chief of a Northland magazine, each day is unique. Some days are purely writing days. I devote the entire day to working on magazine articles, new book chapters, manuscript rewrites, or blog posts; these are the days when I’m driving to the bus stop bra-less and without a lick of makeup because I’m just going to work from home or, perhaps, write from the second floor of my favorite coffee shop (if the latter, a bra is eventually thrown on). These are the days when ideas flow and so do the lattes, my creativity levels increasing commensurate with my consumption of caffeine. Three, four, or five hours easily sail by as I type, and create, and type, and create, until some loud noise knocks me from my zone and I’m brought back into the real world, which is actually OK because I use the break to put in a load of laundry or unload the dishwasher.
Other days are spent attending magazine editorial meetings, photo shoots, or conducting interviews for stories. Depending on the story that I’m working on, I’ll drive to meet people for coffee, interview them at work, or get to monitor them in-action as I take copious notes and mentally outline the story that I’ll create. Inevitably, I walk away feeling both inspired by these amazing people and feeling less-than for not doing anything amazing in my own life. I then remember the love letter and proposal (complete with construction paper ring) that Finn recently made me and realize that my life is amazing, and I’m the luckiest girl in the world. I reward myself with another latte and start to write the article in my head as I jam to a Taylor Swift tune in the car that I wasn’t aware I liked, but I realize that I must because I know every word.
At 3:40 p.m., the boys bound off the bus and wrap their arms around me (my favorite part of the afternoon). Before they’ve released their grip, they’re asking about snack options at home and report about their days. Because my husband also works from home, I try to 
keep the boys occupied by taking them to the library, encouraging them to play outside, or acting super excited about an errand that they get to go on with me (which soon turns into feelings of disappointment and betrayal when they realize I’m pulling into the grocery store). It is then off to soccer or baseball practice – the days that I’m carpool mom entertaining because they forget that I’m there and I soon have 8-year-old boys singing in the back seat and laughing about inside jokes that I try to figure out without asking.
Yes, from the moment my boys get home, my day is much like every other mom’s. I try to respond to a few more emails while Max acts shocked at the not-so-new-rule that homework has to be done now and not during some amorphous later time frame. At dinner, we try to talk to the boys about their days at school, but Finn wants to know why the chicken “looks weird” and if tornadoes are real. Max argues that he doesn’t have to shower because his sweat has disappeared and Finn wants to know how many more days he has to pretend to be good before earning back whatever happened to get taken away that week for bad behavior. Puppet shows are practiced in big cardboard boxes and bottom lips come out when it’s bedtime, both boys breathing on me so I can smell their minty breath – proof that teeth have been brushed.
My days always end the same way. With little boys tucked into bed and sleeping soundly, I curl up beside them and stroke their soft hair and cheeks, whispering wishes for wild adventures and safe travels in their dreams. I lay there and marvel at it all, soaking up each and every magical moment of my disorganized, frenzied, hectic, full-of-laughter, fake it ’til you make it, and amazing life that is better than any story told and any journey that I could have ever written. Luckiest mom ever.
