As a work-at-home mom, I’m amazed by how many sources of guilt I encounter throughout the day. They’re like land mines, lying in wait for me to step on them and trigger the toxic crap inside. Here are just a few of the things that set them off:

• Not playing with my kids enough (or ever)
• Playing with my kids while sneaking glances at my iPhone or surreptitiously reading a novel behind my back
• Answering the endless cries of “Mommy” not with a patient smile but with “Whaaaaaaaaat now!?” (only to have them say “never mind, you’re in a bad mood” before shuffling away)
• Failing to keep a journal of my kids’ funny, cute quotes all these years, to the point that hearing a new one is just salt in the wound
• Failing to display their artwork in creative and artistic ways throughout the house, instead stuffing all of it into big plastic storage containers in the basement
• FACEBOOK
• Not cooking enough (to the point that John asked the other day if we should consider selling the oven)
• Wasting precious time on Pinterest, and then not doing any of the ridiculously awesome stuff other people are doing on Pinterest
• Not updating photo frames with new family pictures, a task that is too exhausting to even think about
• Pretending not to notice the inch-high layer of dust on the ceiling fans, light fixtures, and blinds, because I am lucky to knock out the “core” cleaning tasks, much less the extras
• Telling the kids it’s too late/early/hot/cold to break out that crafting project that’s been collecting dust for months
• Not finding time to work on my novel, which I know in my heart is where my creative energies should go
• Being too much of a loner to spend a decent amount of time with friends and family

I could go on for days.

My BFF and I talk a lot about guilt — not so much the guilt we’re feeling now (because we’re too tired or busy or overwhelmed to truly acknowledge it), but fear of the guilt that’s in store for us. I picture it as a looming, faceless monster, lying in wait for the days when the kids grow up and leave for college, when we’re suddenly sitting in quiet, empty, obscenely clean houses, where no-one yells “Mommy” or begs to sit in our laps or tracks mud onto freshly mopped floors. I’m terrified that instead of looking back fondly on warm memories, I’ll be paralyzed with guilt about what I could’ve done better, or what I didn’t do at all. I’m pretty certain I’ll regret not hugging enough, not laughing enough, not playing enough.

But all of this pre-guilt isn’t constructive — it’s destructive. And all it’s causing is pre-depression.

It doesn’t help that everywhere I turn, someone (usually an older, wiser woman whose kids are probably already experiencing their own pre-guilt) is feeding me pithy advice along the lines of “treasure every moment,” “it goes by so fast,” “blink and they’ll be thirty,” blah blah blah. This used to make me feel terrible, but now it makes me a little angry. Sometimes it’s all I can do to get us through the day in one piece, and here I’m being told that I’m not appreciative enough.

One of my favorite bloggers, Glennon Melton, talked about this in her post “Don’t Carpe Diem“.

Glennon says: “Everywhere I go, someone is telling me to seize the moment, raise my awareness, be happy, enjoy every second, etc, etc, etc. I know that this message is right and good. But, I have finally allowed myself to admit that it just doesn’t work for me. It bugs me. This CARPE DIEM message makes me paranoid and panicky. Especially during this phase of my life – while I’m raising young kids. Being told, in a million different ways to CARPE DIEM makes me worry that if I’m not in a constant state of intense gratitude and ecstasy, I’m doing something wrong.”

Reading Glennon’s post, I felt a little bit of pre-guilt lift off my shoulders. I wasn’t alone! There were other moms out there — smart, successful ones — who loved their kids but didn’t pretend to love every moment of motherhood.

I think our society puts unrealistic expectations on moms. We’re expected to be intensely involved in every aspect of our children’s lives: preparing elaborate crafting projects, watching their TV shows with them, volunteering in their classrooms every chance we get, spending hours on the floor playing Candyland… all while being 100% present in the moment, so our kids know how much we love them and how important and valued they are.

But guess what? As my BFF and I recall, our moms didn’t play with us. We walked to the bustop by ourselves every morning. Our artwork never made an appearance on the walls. I can count on one hand the number of times my parents spent the afternoon in my classroom. And you know what? We may have our neuroses, but for the most part, we turned out just fine.

True confession: I hate crafts. And I’ve accepted that I’m not one of those moms who rolls around on the floor with my kids. But I make sure to say “I love you” several times a day. I kiss and hug them a lot. I lay down with each of them every night before bed and tell them they’re beautiful and smart and funny and important, and that if I could choose any girls in the world to be my daughters, I’d choose them. And if that’s all I’m able to manage right now, so be it.

I’ll save the guilt for the pint (okay, quart) of ice cream I’ll probably eat tonight.

Back when we were kids, clothes shopping was an event. Once or twice a year, we’d go out to K-Mart and stock up, carrying our new Lee jeans and bright-white sneakers home in big plastic bags.

These days, shopping for the girls is an embarrassingly casual process. A few clicks of the mouse, a couple days of waiting, and viola! — a big box materializes on the doorstep. (The UPS guy has become something of a hero to the girls: whenever we happen to drive past one of the mythical brown trucks, Claire has been known to point and say “Look, Mama, clothes!” Really.)

The distribution is what’s most embarrassing: I’ll rummage through the box, separate the clothes by size, and deposit a pile on each girl’s bed, with instructions to “try it all on, and give back what doesn’t fit.”

I know. I’m not proud. I blame it on three things: 1) Clothes-shopping with kids requires getting drunk first, and I don’t drink and drive, 2) Clothes-shopping without kids is about as likely as getting an hour-long massage (and ONLY a massage) from my husband, and 3) The evil people that run GapKids.com and OldNavy.com offer half-price discounts on the cutest damn outfits that appear to have been made just for my daughters.

So, when John announced that he wanted to buy Abby a special dress to reward her for the five cavities she’d just had filled, I whipped out my Kohl’s credit card, all set to order it online. “No, I’m taking her to the store to pick it out,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I was confused. Was something wrong with our Internet connection? Why would anyone want to get dressed, leave the house, drive three miles, and talk to salespeople if it wasn’t absolutely necessary? “Why would you do that?”

“It’s part of the experience, babe,” he said. A bit smugly, I thought.

He waited a week, dangling carrots to build up the anticipation. “Three days ’till Daddy and Abby’s shopping trip!” he’d holler like the town crier. He asked Abby what she thought the dress would look like. She even drew pictures of the damn thing. I pointed out that this could be a recipe for disappointment, because what were the odds that Kohl’s would have the exact same dress she was imagining?

On the big day, Abby skipped out to the Jeep, visions of the mythical dress dancing in her head. A whopping 45 minutes later, they returned with a real stunner: white with black polka-dots, attached necklace, poofy skirt. “First one she saw,” John bragged. Uh-huh. If I’d taken her, you better believe she’d have tried on sixty-three dresses before putting me out of my misery.

Watching Abs prance and twirl around the house in all her glory, I had to admit it was much more exciting than it would have been if I’d dumped a new dress, still wrapped in plastic, on her bed. What had initially seemed like an unnecessary and inefficient errand turned out to be the highlight of Abby’s week.

It made me think. There’s probably plenty of other stuff that could (and should) get hyped-up now and then. Ice-cream cones, play dates, walks around the neighborhood…with a little embellishment and imagination, they can all be made magical. Like the times we’ve gone on “night walks” and laid down on the sidewalk to stare up at the stars (getting no shortage of weird looks from the neighbors). Or when John and Savannah set up exercise stations for a family workout one night (if you’ve never watched a 3-year-old do jump squats, you haven’t lived). Even the tedious tasks — haircuts, bathtimes, grocery shopping — can be spun to seem less like chores and more like adventures.

It all starts with us.

John is good at turning everyday events into adventures. It’s a little harder for me to let go of the to-do list and lighten up. But no matter how tired or grumpy or stressed I am, I have the power to turn the bathtub into an ocean, the haircut into a princess makeover, the grocery trip into an opportunity to earn a free cookie at the bakery. So much of my day-to-day work relies on creativity — and I need to learn to channel some of that into parenting.

Making much ado about nothing…can create something pretty special.

From the moment I wake up in the morning, I’m running. Literally. Anywhere from 7 to 8 miles before sunrise. I’m pretty much still asleep for the first half, shuffling along in the dark while bits of last night’s dreams clog my head like laundry lint. What is the significance of Justin Bieber and I having drinks together, Selena nowhere in sight? Am I on the brink of a mid-life crisis? Or maybe I’ve just been listening to that damn “Boyfriend” song too much.

Back home, my run complete, I start a new race… against the clock.

1. The husband is already waiting in the driveway in his crisp suit and tie. Waving goodbye, I swallow my jealousy as he begins the quiet drive to his kid-free office, where he will sip on Starbucks and have adult conversations and send emails without refereeing an attempted siblicide or wiping a single butt.
2. Wake up kids.
3. Distribute Cocoa Puffs evenly into 3 bowls.
4. Wake up kids again, threaten loss of morning TV show.
5. Check email to see which client is most pissed. Send the stuff I meant to send before nodding off at my laptop the night before.
6. Wake up kids again, threaten loss of breakfast.
7. Bustop #1, back home.
8. Bustop #2, back home.
9. Clean a bathroom. Fold a load of laundry.
10. Squeeze in a client call, interrupted mid-way by a screaming 4-year-old who hasn’t had the decency to start kindergarten yet.
11. Shower? No.
12. Bustop, add a kid.
13. Make that 3 kids.
14. Shower? Okay, but don’t even think about washing the hair.
15. Eat lunch while working, one eye out the window to make sure the kids aren’t playing on homemade nooses or trying to drown one another in the pond.
16. Bustop, add a kid…

And on, and on, and on.

Claire goes to preschool two mornings a week. Ninety blissful, obscenely short minutes — and you better believe there’s a plan for every last one. Last Tuesday, I overslept and missed half my run, so I decided I’d make it up by jogging around Claire’s school after dropping her off.

Running down Lebanon Road, my tired legs plodded as my mind raced through the rest of the day’s events: back home to shower, check email, pick up Claire, pick up Abby, work, grocery, more work, gymnastics, soccer practice, dinner, laundry, more work… it’s like a never-ending movie reel that plays in my head, and I can’t weasel my way out of a single scene.

Oh, and because you’ll wonder later, I’ll tell you that it was a beautiful, sunny morning. Sixty and sunny. No rain, no gusty winds. Smooth, dry sidewalks. No potholes, no pebbles, no errant branches. Nothing that would cause a 35-year-old woman to suddenly pitch forward, go airborne for one slow, sickening second, and then do a nosedive onto the pavement, skidding like a minor-leaguer for what felt like half a block before coming to an agonizing stop.

No reason for that to happen. Yet there I was, in a fetal position on the sidewalk — during preschool rush hour — while a parade of minivans cruised by. A few slowed down, moms peeking over their aviators and coffee mugs with that mixture of pity and disgust that comes with spotting large roadkill. They all looked concerned, but you bet your ass they were all thinking the same thing: “Thank God it’s her and not me.” Terrified that one of them would pull over, I managed to climb to my feet, putting on a sheepish smile as if to say “Looked like that hurt, didn’t it? Luckily I’m a tough bitch.”

A tough bitch who sniffled like a schoolgirl as she gathered her belongings — sunglasses, phone, iPod — and started walking slowly back from where she came, silently surveying the damage. Everything hurt. My hands bled down into my sleeves. My shoulder, hip, and both knees felt like they’d burst into flames. Four of my nails had broken down below the fingertip. My whole body felt arthritic, slow, sore. Old.

And I felt guilty, too. All those times I told the kids “brush it off, here’s a Band-Aid, quit whining, you’re fiiiiine.” Turns out they weren’t being wimps after all: road rash hurts like hell.

I don’t cry often. And that morning, as I finally let loose behind my sunglasses, it occurred to me that I should do it more often. At least a good cry is proof that I’m alive, that I’m feeling something. Racing through the days and nights, I rarely allow any deviation from my schedule — physically or mentally. Every moment is spoken for, packed to the gills with work and cleaning and errands and household obligations. No time for singing, smiling, laughing, or dancing.

No time for falling.

Walking along, surveying the clear, smooth sidewalk, it occurred to me that this mysterious fall — whatever inexplicable force catapulted me from my carefully scheduled morning — may have been a wake-up call. My body’s way of telling me — forcing me — to slow the #$% down.

Since my fall, I haven’t exactly slowed down, but I’ve become a bit more aware. I pay more attention to the strike of my feet on the pavement, the strength (or weakness) of my body, my level of energy or fatigue. When my muscles feel particularly heavy and tired, when my feet start to drag, I give them the break they need. And I’m trying to extend these mini-breaks into my non-running moments, too. I actually took a 30-minute nap the other day, while my kids milled around the bed in a state of shock, wondering if I was breathing. Even just a few minutes on the couch with a good book can help you slow down, recharge, and keep moving forward…with sure footing.

Life sure feels a hell of a lot like a race sometimes. But the most important thing is getting where you need to be in one happy, healthy piece — not going so fast that you trip on your own intentions.

….and this was just from today.

This evening, for example, Savannah requested her favorite meal, corn dogs and fruit, which she ate at 5:45 while the rest of us milled around the kitchen. At 6:00, John joined her with re-heated roast beef and roasted potatoes (delivered by the MIL this past weekend; I can take no credit). Around the same time, Abby was dining on Quaker oatmeal and cinnamon toast — and this is where I feel we crossed a line — up in her bedroom, on her favorite blue tray, while watching a movie. Around 7:00, Claire finally wrapped up her evening tantrum and sat down to eat a hot dog with cheese and crackers. Finally, at 7:30, I heated up my own meal, two chilitos from Skyline and a Diet Mt. Dew (the nutritional anti-Christ), while checking emails.

You think THAT’S bad? Just wait ’till dessert.

How dare I bring Savannah a sippy cup of juice in front of all her friends? DUH, Mom. Once you graduate first grade, lids with spouts are laughable. And when I hollered out the front door that she only had five more minutes till bathtime, I got the dagger eyes as she sped off on her bike. Later, she explained in her world-weary tone that only BABIES take baths. Seven-year-olds shower, or at least pretend to. Oh, and vitamins! How dare I remind Sav to take hers in front of her BFF?! Even those yummy gummy ones are now decidedly uncool.

I have so much to learn. I take comfort in the fact that my parents humiliated me on a daily basis. Like when my dad used to pull up outside the mall to pick us up in his boat-sized white El Camino, jumping up and down and waving with a big goofy grin, for the sole purpose of embarrassing us. I lived through it, and so will Sav.

Riding behind them, watching Savannah’s zealous, half-standing pedal and Abby’s yellow skirt billowing in the balmy wind, I felt that little jolt that comes when I am mindful, living in the moment, not racing from one task to the next but just allowing myself to enjoy the here and now. Admittedly, those moments are few and far between – but I’m working on making more of them, and appreciating and savoring them when they do happen. And let me tell you, cruising around the lake, hearing Abby’s sweet little-girl voice cry out “This is the best day ever!” was tons more rewarding than finishing that article.

Later, when the girls were having popcorn in the family room, I was in the midst of a packing frenzy (preparing for the move in 3.5 weeks) when Claire asked me to help her with her new Phineas & Ferb puzzle. My stock answer came automatically: “I’m not that good at puzzles; ask Daddy.” But John was busy sticking frozen corn down his pants (that’s another story), so Claire gave up trying to find a puzzle partner. “No,” I told myself. “The packing can wait.” I took a 10-minute break to sit next to Claire on the couch and work on the puzzle, letting her stick in every 3rd or 4th piece, until we completed it and exchanged a high-five. As she proudly showed her sisters and Daddy the finished product, I returned to my packing with a lighter heart.

Live in the moment. Not every moment. Maybe not even every hour. But at least a few times a day.