I have a deep admiration and appreciation for organized moms: women who prepare for events a month in advance, those who have Sunday dinner prepared Saturday by noon and the ones who think about the details that matter.

Why do I like this kind of woman? Because I am not her and I wish I were. Being prepared is not even a consideration. Sunday dinner planning is a fleeting thought on the way home from church, that disappears as soon as I lay down for my nap.

Details? What are those?

Unsigned permission slips, school picture forms needing to be filled out and school lunch accounts in need of money are just a few things that hang around my neck like a noose waiting to be tightened. Because of my lacking in this area I think I have missed the cut as “Mom of the Year.”

My 16-year-old son, Luke, reminded me on a Monday that they had football pictures on Tuesday and he needed his uniform washed. On Tuesday I stumbled over his dirty uniform and thought, I need to get that washed, but his game isn’t until Wednesday, so what’s the rush?

But for some reason I had a burning feeling that I needed to get it washed – but I quickly ignored it when I was beckoned to the kitchen with a “Mom, what is there to eat?”

While cleaning off the counter I noticed Luke’s football picture order form and that point I wanted to be the super-organized mom, and filled it out right then and inserted the money, so when he was headed to practice I could hand it to him and look like I was so on top of things.

He was a tad late getting home from work and was in a hurry to get to practice. He walked into the laundry room and saw his uniform sitting in the same place it was when he took it off after his game five days earlier. “You didn’t wash my uniform?”

And I smugly replied, “Your game isn’t until tomorrow.”
He then looked at me and said, “But Mom, we have pictures today!” And he proceeded to put on a dirty uniform (good thing it’s dark green) – and I proceeded to feel like the worst mom in the world.

You see, if this had been one of my other boys’ uniform, there would be no guilt because both of them are as bad as I am at forgetting things. When we forget things, we forget that we felt bad about forgetting just about as quickly as we remember.

But this was Luke I was dealing with – the kid who doesn’t forget, the kid who folds his dirty socks together and puts them in the dirty laundry so they don’t get separated. This is the kid who is a self-starter, thrives on routine and hardly ever has to be told twice. I wanted to get it right for him out of sheer respect for who he is.
After chores that night I walked into the laundry room and promptly put his uniform in the wash. I looked up and Luke was standing there with a big smile on his face. I may not be Mom of the Year, but a smile like that is better than any title, any day.

The views and opinions expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of Farm World. Readers with questions or comments for Melissa Hart may write to her in care of this publication.