This morning, as I walked the length of the frigid parking lot into our local coffee establishment, I had an epiphany.

Sort of.

I had just dropped Gutsy and Spawnling off at their respective schools. Admittedly, I was not in the greatest of moods. I knew I needed something to make my day a little more caffeinated, so I pulled into the Tim Hortons down the road before heading home. Two twenty-something guys got out of their car in front of me. The minute the passenger door opened, a stream of curses flowed out. As they walked ahead of me, I noticed they weren't particularly well-dressed.

Sort of.

I mean, their clothes could be nice, but they hadn't taken the time to, like, pick appropriate sizes off the rack, or match them all that well. It was sort of a mishmash of fashion, like they had gone to Winners - the Canadian J.C. Penney - and just grabbed whatever had a brand name on it because it had a brand name. The two young gentlemen walked ahead of me.

"And then I was all like, bleep man! What the bleep is her bleeping problem? She's such a bleeping bloop. Motherbleeper. Bleep!" explained the passenger to his friend.

He must just not notice that I'm two feet behind them, I figured.

"Uh-huh" said the other guy. Then, he turned sideways - away from his friend - closed one nostril, and blew snot out the other. I had to sidestep so I wouldn't walk on his what was now his ice Kleenex. Barf. It became increasingly obvious that they didn't know I was there.

I promptly named my new special acquaintances Snotman and Fuckboy.

As we got to the restaurant doors, Snotman walked in first. Fuckboy followed, and then did something that changed my whole view of them: Without looking behind him, he held the door for me.

They knew I was there the entire time.

"Uh, thanks," I said as I walked through.

"No problem," Fuckboy smiled. They even let me go ahead of them to get my coffee. Behind me I heard more swearing and sinus manipulation, but I was deep in contemplative thought. Snotman and Fuckboy had opened my eyes to a new way of living: not giving a crap.

My new superheroes knew I could hear them swearing. They knew snot could have hit my shoe at any moment. They probably know how to pick out clothes that don't make them look like sandbags, too. But the difference between them and me is that I care too much.

I've been feeling pretty overwhelmed the last week or so. Gutsy's having problems at school, Intrepid's having his own set of motivational problems, too. Spawnling had three time-outs at preschool on Monday (he says he only really deserved one - that's mommy's little lawyer). I've had various phone calls with various employees of various schools, all wondering how we can work together to make a particular gremlins's learning experience a better one. I have meetings lined up; email chains longer than my family's grocery list; commitments to various friends, family, clients, organizations and, of course, my children and spouse; a house to clean; a blog to write in; a book to write; gluten-free baking to do... In short, I am one person feeling stretched in many different directions.

I don't want to let anyone down, but I feel like I'm barely keeping my head above water most days. I think a lot of parents - especially mothers - feel this way. It's one of the main reasons I don't have a full-time job outside the home; I can't imagine having to do that, too. I'm way too lazy to balance 40 hours of work and a family. I'd rather be broke and able to breathe - most days. Other days I'd like to be living a life where I may not see my kids that much, but we all get to go to Jamaica together every year and forget about all the phone calls and emails for a while.

Anyway, here I was, feeling all stressed out and miserable and non-caffeinated, when along came the Unkept Wonder Duo to give me an entirely new way of looking at things. What if I just didn't care anymore? What if I, like the protagonist in the amazing cult classic movie known as Office Space, suddenly just stopped caring about everything? Maybe I could have a series of operations to remove my responsibility neurons, stress processors and compassion gland.

What do you mean "Those aren't real body parts, Maven"? Are you a doctor? Didn't think so. Doctors don't read my blog. My high level of functional insanity would challenge everything they learned in their pricey medical schools.

Sometimes I really wish I could stop caring, or at the very least gain a bit of perspective. I get so wrapped up in myself and my family and the unique set of problems we deal with that it's easy to get overwhelmed. Sometimes reminding myself that there are worse issues out there makes a difference. Sometimes it doesn't. Just because someone else has it harder doesn't mean it isn't hard here. It doesn't make all the stress go away.

But I'm not willing to throw on some tights and go moping through the streets as Captain Bringdown just yet. I have gratitude, I have laughter, I have season 6 of Grey's Anatomy. I have a husband who lets me rant, friends who give me hugs and coffee, kids who make me smile when they're not making me want to strangle them. Gratitude keeps me going. If I can just reach out and grab hold of one of the many good things that are good in my life, it helps balance me out. Sometimes it takes a couple of days and some gross guys to remind me that there's a happy medium out there.

Gather 'round, kids, so that Mother Maven can explain the moral of the story: Everyone's life has problems, but you don't have to wreck your fucking vocabulary for it, fuck. So, while blowing snot onto a parking lot may sometimes seem like the only option, it isn't. Just remember: There are always good things in life to remind you to breathe, to enjoy, and to smile. And when you're staring at a sales rack, always make good choices.

Love,
Mother Maven