Sometimes, I just show up places late. It drives my husband crazy. But let's be real. The struggle doesn’t lie solely with me. There are two tiny, adorable somebodies who are equally at fault for making us late.

My engineer husband works like mechanical clockwork. He is never later. NEVER. It's taken nearly a decade for him to teach me his secrets, but he's shown me that it's actualy possible to show up somewhere early.

And so, in good faith, I have been making conscious efforts to get to places early. But why is it that whenever we put pressure on ourselves to do something, it backfires...

Bet you can guess where this is going.

The time crunch is felt keenly in our home on Wednesday evenings. Between work and master's degree classes, my husband is absent most Wendesdays. Getting the kids ready for their weekly Wednesay night activities relies solely on me.

In order to make it to our evening activity "on time" (which is really ten minutes early, remember), we need to pull put of the driveway at 6:00pm. I have a timer set for 5:50pm to remind the children to get on their shoes, grab their bags and jackets, and put on seatbelts.

Yes, it takes ten minutes. Have you seen toddlers?

In order to leave by 6:00pm, dinner needs to be served at 5:15pm AT THE LATEST. So you can imagine my panic when I looked up at the clock at 5:27pm and realized I forgot to plan for dinner. 

I had before me two options. The healthy one: a luxurious smoothie with fresh spinach, large avocado, three types of berries, ripe banana, and homemade yogurt.

Or leftover pizza.

Mom guilt plagued me. Could I really justify one more night of pizza for my kids? I should step it up. Be one of those Good Moms. Get in those veggies. So I chose the healthy option.

Friends, never ever EVER choose the healthy option.

Triumphantly, I poured delicious smoothie goodness into our large cups. But as I was putting lid on the second extremely full cup, the cup slipped out of my hands and spewed smoothie across the counter and floor like a toddler eating canned pea puree.

With the instict that only motherhood can bring, I sacrificially threw my body in front of the spewing smoothing, shielding my children from the crossfire. My leg took a nasty hit. A 10” stream of dark purple smoothie oozed down my pant leg, soaking my leg underneath.

And this is when I realized my problem. 

I own only one pair of pants. 

Backstory: it took me months to find a pair of jeans that actually fit my body. So when the heavens parted and I found the Golden Goose jeans that fit, I ordered two pairs. Problem is, I'm 5'1" and I just never got around to hemming the second pair 4.5" shorter.

Before you recoil in horror, don’t worry. I wash my only pair of pants regularly. In fact, I had just washed them that morning...

Curse you, Smoothie.

I'm frantically wiping purple smoothie off my leg when I hear a faint wail rise up from my sensitive 6yo daughter. You see, it is her smoothie from her pink cup that I have heartlessly destroyed. 

“What am I going to eat?!” she asked, lip quivering as she pondered her plight of starvation.

Sacrificially, I told her I would give her half of her 3yo brother's smoothie. Mama ain’t going hungry.

I redistribute the smoothies, snap on the lids, shove in straws, and command my children: EAT.

I begin scooping cups of bright purple smoothie from the counter into the trash. I grab a nearby left-over frozen broccoli bag (see, dear husband, it’s good I don’t throw trash away when I’m done with it) and begin lapping the ever growing oozing mass from the counter into the bag.

Next time I will make sure the bag doesn’t have a giant hole in it.

As I’m tossing smoothie into the trash can, I congratulate myself on a job well done. I cleaned up my mess and only my pants took a hit. No harm, no foul. 

When I turn around, I see a sizeable trail of healthy purple goo blobbed across my kitchen floor. I quickly grab napkins and begin wiping like a crazy person, praying I'm quicker than my 3yo who has a fascination with jumping in puddles, no matter the color.

As I'm on my hands and knees cleaning the floor, I look up at the counter above me to see that The Zombie Smoothie That Won't Die has now oozed over the counter edge and into the my spice drawer. I begin frantically wiping the sides of the counter, throw open the spice drawer, and yell NOT TODAY, SATAN!

I glance up at the clock. 

We are now behind schedule. 

I bark at my children like a seasoned army captain: Get on your shoes! Grab your jacket! Get your bags! Go! Go! Go!

My children, sensing none of my urgentness, proceed to play a little game we call “Where Did My Shoes Go.” Nevermind that I laid them out in advance by the front door. It still takes 5 minutes for them to find them and adorn their tiny feet.

I have my back turned to my 3yo when I hear whispered the words no parent in a hurry should hear. 

“Where are my paaaaaants?”

I spin around, in horror.

He is fully clothed, merely quoting the LEGO® Movie. Crisis averted.

My phone alarm goes off again (aka – the GET IN THE CAR NOW alarm). My alarm is set to a happy preschool song where a little teddie bear joyfully sings about being “happy all day long.” 

As the music plays, I try to muster my 3yo's flailing arms into a his jacket. I grit my teeth in an effort to smile. "Be happy all day loooooong!" He jumps and dances in time to the music, evading my efforts. 

I give up. We leave the jacket at home.

I finally get the kids in the car when my oldest informs me it is a Special Night. “Mommy, we are supposed to bring food to donate to the Food Pantry tonight!”

Pushing away the urge to donate a trashcan full of smoothie, I run back inside to raid the pantry. I grab two boxes of Annie’s Homegrown Organic Mac and Cheese (never choose the healthy option, friends). As I’m rounding the kitchen, I discover the last vestige of smoothie ooze that I had missed.

Ooze that was now staining my 3yo son's yellow Winnie the Pooh backpack that he carries with him everywhere. And there were no napkins in sight.

Without thinking I grab his backpack. And lick it. 

I licked the smoothie off my son’s dirty backpack. A backpack that has gone in restrooms and public changing tables. I licked it with my tongue.

Because that’s what we mother’s do.

We lick the unlickable. To save our children from Demon Smoothies.

I run back out of the house trying to not think about what pathogenic disease I just ate and we take off. We will not be late. We will not be late. We will not be late.

I let a car with it’s blinker on merge ahead of me and realize it’s a Driver’s Ed car. We merge onto the highway at the impressive speed of 35 mph. But I will not be deterred.

My children are fed. I have proven victorious over the Evil Smoothie. Everyone is alive. And I didn’t yell (too much).

I smile at my victory. 

Then I look down at my shirt. I was so focused on my pants, I forgot to look at my shirt … which has forevermore been ruined by bright purple stain of organic spinach, strawberries, and hand-harvested blueberries.

Which is when I also notice that my shirt is covered in holes. I can’t even.

We finally pull into the parking lot for our activity. On time. Hallelujah. Miracles do exist.

It is only then, once we have parked, that my 6yo reminds me with a mixture of sincerity and panic: MOMMY!!! WE FORGOT TO WEAR OUR COSTUMES!!!

Don’t worry, kids. I’ll be going as Healthy Purple Girl, the superwoman who licks backpacks.

Next week, we’re eating leftover pizza.