F*#%ing Mittens


I see other moms out there, dropping off kids, pushing strollers through the snow at the store, and I want to get up on top of my car with a blowhorn and get everyone to give her a standing ovation. And a medal. And a killer parking spot.

Because I know how much work it took to get there. And how invisible that work is.

Like mittens.  This time of the year I can hardly think of them without calling them F*#%ing Mittens.  (Note: I have not called them that out loud to my kids yet. I am hoping to never do so, but refuse to make such a long-term promise.) At my house they are either missing, mismatched, wet or lost. Always.

They are the Achilles heel of my ability to get anywhere without a struggle, conflict, fit or meltdown. We are generally a happy family. But holy guacamole, if you were to only see us getting ready to go somewhere you would really start to worry about us.

Oh, the systems we have tried. The many pairs of identical mittens. The strings through the coat sleeves. The cubbies. The baskets. The trying to get everything set out the night before. We have soundly beat ourselves over the head with these systems and lo and behold, we have lost our F*#%ing Mittens anyhow.

Perhaps we are a mess. Perhaps we have too much crap. Perhaps we are not giving ourselves ample time in our rush out the door. But the truth really that we are functioning at full capacity and at full speed and we can’t handle one more thing. And F*#%ing Mittens are actually two things — left and right. And more than we can bear.

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Bio: Elke Govertsen is the publisher of Mamalodewhich is a magazine and website for area moms. When not juggling her family, business, and the laundry (disclosure – there is no laundry being done whatsoever) Elke tries to eek out time to write, do yoga, and read like a fiend.