I don’t know how many mom “types” there are. But I’ll tell you what–I’ll tell you the kind of mom I’m not.

(1) I am not the kind of mom who manages to get her kids dressed in normal clothes every morning. Nope, not me. I’m in awe of those moms whose kids look like little functioning adults. I saw a toddler wearing suspenders the other day. Suspenders. 
(2) I am not the kind of mom who posts Instagram photo shoots of her kids wearing cute clothes and doing adorable things. How do they manage to keep the kids clean? And how, for the love of God, do moms keep bows or anything hair-related in their kids’ hair? Not happening over here. 
(3) I am not the kind of mom who maintains a clean house, folds laundry, and makes beds. My house is a mess every damn day. I attempt minor pick-up every night, but most nights I do the minimum and crawl in bed. It’ll just happen all over again tomorrow, right?
(4) I am not the kind of mom who is put together. I’m thrilled if I manage to slap on some mascara and change into a clean outfit. (Confession: I haven’t worn underwear all day. Why bother with this pair of comfy sweatpants?)
(5) I am not the kind of mom who is afraid to admit this shit is hard. I’m not afraid to say it, all of it. I have no interest in pretending.

(6) I am not the kind of mom who helicopter parents her toddler. I let my kid fall. I let her learn and face consequences, and sometimes it’s hard not to swoop in and rescue her from herself.
Want to know what kind of mom I am? Here ya go. 
I’m a total freaking disaster. I am the kind of mom who considers it a small victory when her child is wearing socks. It’s a major victory if the socks match and are clean. My kids are often in their pajamas all day, and sometimes they go back to bed in those same pajamas (rarely, but it happens). I’m the kind of mom who has no idea when she washed her hair last and repeatedly wonders if she put on deodorant that morning.  I’m the kind of mom who will spend 30 minutes searching for the Rumba to clean up a mess instead of simply sweeping it up with the broom (and then inevitably have to wait for it to charge because it’s dead). I’m the kind of mom who trucks her kids outside and encourages them to thrash around in the wet, muddy grass (video below). Get it, girl. I’m also the kind of mom who will leave her children for the weekend to play in a football tournament with her husband and friends. (While there, I’ll miss my girls every hour and love them even more when I return.)
The best part? I don’t give a shit that I don’t have my shit together. This is me and this is how I operate. I love my husband and my girls with every fiber of my disastrous, messy being. I do the important things: my girls are warm, fed, and loved. This house is not for the graceful, the poised, or the immaculate. In this house, we live with gusto and we make a mess doing it. Books and toys litter the family room, laundry sits in baskets all over the house (we usually just rifle through it), the bathroom floor is wet from a rowdy bath, and the the counter tops are littered with random items, including a green plastic wind up robot that I’m looking at right now.

I know no moms are perfect, and I mean no disrespect to moms who are different than me. I respect and sometimes envy those moms who are much more put together than me. To the moms like me who are picking dog hairs off pacifiers before popping them in their baby’s mouths, godspeed – we got this.