As a single mom, having 3 kids makes it hard to get work done. I wouldn’t trade them for all the productivity in the world.

My kids make it hard to get work done, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything

An hour and a half later, we were sent home with a script for prednisone to help bring down the swelling while we waited for the culture to come back from the lab. I went back to my computer. The screen lit up just as my 19-year-old son appeared and asked what he should pack for college. We leave in two days.

This is a kid who has packed his own bag for every golf tournament, family vacation, and overnight with friends. It’s true, I usually print a packing list, but it’s also true I’ve forgotten to add undies and shorts multiple times. This was the first instance he’d ever asked for help. I said, “Line up all your favorite clothing and knickknacks, and then we can narrow down the choices.” Everything needed to fit into the car and then his dorm room.

He returned several times. “How many T-shirts should I bring?” and “How many shoes?”

I wanted to run to his bedroom and lock up his stuff so he couldn’t leave, but I stayed focused on the book and tried not to cry. I really thought I’d be ready to push my firstborn out the door, but it turns out I’m not that mom, after all.

In his room, he’d lined up all his shoes — 14 pairs. We narrowed it down to 12, and he put them in a bag. I looked at the two suitcases, packed and ready, and I went back to my office before I broke down. He’s ready, I know that, but I’m still sad he’s leaving.

The phone rang as I reached my computer. My writing partner. We’re producing a live show in two weeks, and she wanted to run some ideas by me. Just after that, a student from my writing class called to ask how to structure a pitch. And just as I thought I’d cleared out the clutter, my youngest child texted. “You can leave now,” he said. “The bus is close.”

He’s in 9th grade and just started a new school 45 minutes away. Cross-country practice was canceled, and his bus was on its way to the park where I dropped him off 10 hours earlier.

I got into the car, and the phone buzzed. “She has strep G,” said the text from my pediatrician. “Sending antibiotic to Walgreens.”

I had a horrible case of strep when I was living in Hood River, Oregon a gazillion years ago. I have no idea what G is, but I’m thinking it means goiter, because mine was bad and so is hers. I got my goiter-style strep from this guy named Fleisher. When I think of him, my throat still hurts.

While I waited for the bus, I thought about my day. I’d failed Too Tall and would have to tell him it wasn’t done yet. I know he’ll understand, but still. I didn’t accomplish what I’d set out to do. Maybe that’s just life. Things come up. And even though I was disappointed, I wouldn’t have traded my distractions for a life without them. I texted my daughter with the news.

She asked how she might have gotten it. I said, “Sharing a straw, the kids you babysat, kissing.”

“Mom,” she texted back. “I didn’t kiss anyone. Nice try.”

“Well then, I don’t know how you got it, baby. Maybe that’s just life.”