I’m not picking up my toys for forty-five cents.

Even though it was close to 25 years ago, I remember that chore chart affixed with Disney magnets to our white fridge.

My dad had broken apart every chore in our home, assigned it a monetary value and created this perfectly organized chart.

If I did every chore on it, I would earn $2 a week.

That amount seems small now, but at the time, my 10-year-old self was pretty stoked.

So I scanned the list and decided to start with dishes. I quickly scrubbed the plates, bowls and silverware and placed them in the drying rack. It took me 20 minutes.

Yes! I went back to the list and check it off. Fifty-cents.

Already…I was done with this.

Time for a break.

Fast-forward a week later and that was the only box I completed on the ENTIRE chart.

As soon as we stepped out of the theatre lobby, my nine-year-old daughter burst into tears.

“Oh my goodness, what’s wrong?” I pulled her close.

She nudged me away with a little whimper and used the back of her hand to sop up her face.

Immediately, my brain went into panic mode.

Was someone mean to her at camp?

Did she not have fun?

She climbed into the backseat and the whole story came tumbling out:

I saw the potato chip fly across the table.

We’re at the mall food court and next to us sits a mom and her two boys. At that moment, I feel for her.

“Jonathan,” she placated, “Why did you throw this at me?”

I clench.

“WELL! Aaron threw at me! It’s not MINE!”

Aaron sat next to her examining the contents of his plate.

“Oh fine… well, it’s not nice.”

I stare at my plate of tacos. What just happened here?

Not my best parenting moment.

My four-year-old son and I were running late. It’s always where my blow-ups happen.

We had left Target and were driving to pick up my daughter from her day camp when I noticed it… that orange light on the dashboard.

I only had 7 miles left in the tank.

OK, I can do this. I can hit the Circle K on the way to camp. As I cross the intersection, I notice the station is packed – I’ve never seen so many cars!  Every pump occupied.

Ooohh… except one. I pull a fancy backup maneuver and sidle up to the pump.

“Mommy, I’m hot,” my four-year-old son tells me from the backseat.

“Five more minutes!” you call into the living room.

Your daughter and son are both engrossed in their tablets. They haven’t left the couch all afternoon.

You feel that you have no control over it either –  take away their devices and they become complaining, moping monsters.

I thought it would be a nice breakfast out.

My husband was golfing with his parents and brothers, so it was just me and my kids.

We slid into a teal green booth at the Oink Cafe.

“Mommy, I want to sit by you,” my nine-year-old daughter slid into the booth next to me leaving her four-year-old brother to sit by himself on the other side.

Ooooh…I knew that wasn’t happening.

I saw his face crumple. He opened his mouth and before he could say a word, I interjected with…

“No, why don’t you both sit together?”

That’s when the standoff began.

“MOooooom, I can’t find my library books.”

My daughter stopped, stood in the middle of the living room and stared at me with these sad eyes.

Her head was down.

Her shoulders drooped.

I don’t buy it for a second.

Deep breath.

“Mommy, I’m sick. I don’t want to go school”

My preschool son stood in front of me, still wearing his Paw Patrol pajamas. My heart picked up pace.

Anytime my kids are sick, a solid steel ball forms in my stomach.

Is he ok?
Should he go to school?
Or does he need to stay home and rest?
And also, the point I’m less likely to admit:

Am I bad mom sending my child to school when he says he is sick?

This conversation might sound familiar:

“But you didn’t tell me to…”

“It is not my responsibility to remember your homework/ lunchbox/ dance clothes…”

Maybe you’ve said it or possibly heard other parents say it and have vowed, “No, not me. Never.”

And then you’re faced with that moment where your child forgets her lunch at home for the third time that month.