The summer I was twelve I went to girls camp. Despite much prepubescent girl drama, and having to leave my crimping iron at home, I thought camp was fantastic. That was until I heard some of the camp leaders talking about me. Whats this, I thought, grown women gossiping about moi? To my shock and horror they were discussing what a complete disorganized mess I was. They didn't see me because I was crouched behind a bush with the contents of my backpack dumped on the ground, frantically searching for one of my sneakers. The only shoes I had, where in the hell heck(we were NOT allowed to swear)..... I logically concluded a wild animal had run off with one in the night. So what if I was constantly searching for a lost item, lagging a little behind on a hike, sun burnt and covered in mosquito bites? I was having a good time! Then one of the evil leaders chimed in "I am so glad she is not my daughter!" I was devastated. I could not imagine any grow-up not finding me the sweet, lovable, absolutely charming child that my mother did. That night with the nylon sleeping bag pulled tightly over my head I cried myself to sleep. By the morning I had concluded the problem was not me, could not be me. It was not my fault wild animals were stealing random pieces of my clothing and that I was the only one to burn my hand with the glue gun during craft time. That leader was a salty old beast that would be lucky to have me as her daughter.

Fast forward twenty years and I have dumped out the entire contents of an enormous purse on the passenger seat of my minivan. I can't find my cell phone and I need to turn it off before we go into church. which we are late for. Also my hair is still wet, my little peanut has crusties on her face, and it is Mothers Day. Big sister groans, she has learned from experience that it can take mommy obscene amounts of time to locate her cellular device. I slam my head against the steering wheel and wonder when I am ever going to get it together. I know there are moms inside right now with perfectly styled hair and clean matching children. I know that their houses are clutter free, and dinner is probably in the dang crock pot. I know as sure as I have spit up on my blouse they got to church on time, cool as cucumbers.

I spend most of church wondering to myself why my wheels are always spinning in the mud. I get a big fat F on the responsible, organized and efficient columns of my motherhood report card. Needs Improvement is my only comment. A child across the isle is throwing a tantrum which I am seriously happy about. When his sister starts in unholy harmony their screams are an angelic choir to my ears. I want to run over and give their frazzled mother a big kiss. Whoopee, you get a D- for having naughty children, welcome to the club. Tell me sister, have you ever been on girls camp?