They say hindsight is 20/20. I say hindsight is mostly flashbacks of breakfast battles, missing shoes, and the faint smell of horse barns mixed with the scent of hockey gear.

When my husband and I decided to send our kids to a private school thirty minutes away, it sounded simple enough. Thirty minutes didn’t seem like much on paper, until you factored in three children, five mandatory uniforms, and one middle son whose shoes were seemingly in witness protection. Every morning felt less like a school routine and more like starring in a remastered version of Children of the Corn.

Catholic school uniforms were supposed to make getting dressed for school easier. Black pants and polos for the boys, plaid pinafores for the girls, and of course, the famous white knee socks. In theory, it was foolproof: five days, five outfits, all the same.

But no one warned me about the socks. My daughter turned them into an international crisis. ‘These have lace. These have ruffles. These shimmer. Are you trying to ruin my life?’ Yes, clearly, my master plan was to sabotage her entire future by purchasing the wrong style of knee socks. For the record, she survived. She graduated summa cum laude, is in her second year of law school at the age of twenty-two, and is engaged to her soulmate. Life ruined. Mission accomplished, Mom.

Meanwhile, my middle son bolted out of the house each morning barefoot, pants unzipped, shirt half-tucked, crying as if I’d sold him to the circus. His shoes had more freedom than he did. Where were they? Who knew. They were probably running free through the wild outback of Bartlett. At one point, I considered nailing them to the floor by his bed, but I knew better. They’d probably tunnel their way out and hitchhike to Guatemala.

And my oldest? He moved slower than dial-up internet. My grandmother, with one good eye and a walker, could have smoked him in a race. Parade speed? I have seen corpses with more hustle. He’s now 28, and I’m happy to report he still moves with the urgency of a glacier.

And that was just the getting dressed portion of the day. Breakfast was a saga of its own. Mondays became “Oatmeal Mondays”, my attempt at detoxing them after weekends spent living like raccoons. Saturdays were drive-thru meals between sports tournaments, and Sundays meant a full spread at Nonna and Nonno’s. By Monday morning, my kids were basically human Twinkies.

I tried everything to make oatmeal appealing: maple syrup, honey, and rainbow sprinkles. The sprinkles sat so long on untouched bowls that they morphed into rainbow unicorn vomit. I added chocolate chips, only to discover they ate every single one and left a sad glob of beige paste. Needless to say, my wedding weight was never in jeopardy after cleaning up those bowls.

If I thought school hours would mean peace, boy, was I wrong. My middle son discovered his entrepreneurial streak at an early age. One day, I got a call: he’d stolen classmates’ pencils, colored them with markers, and sold them back for fifty cents. Another time, he was caught running a quarter-pitching ring behind the gym. I’d like to personally thank Nonno and his friends for that particular “educational activity.”

Pick-up wasn’t any better. Once, a teacher marched him to my car to remind me that homework came before dinner parties. Apparently, my son was suffering because I MADE  him socialize instead of drilling multiplication tables. Imagine my horror when I realized I hadn’t even been invited to that dinner party. Needless to say, I never parked in the parking lot again.

The Great Navajo Massacre of 2008

I learned early to avoid helping with homework. The one time I did, my son returned to school with red X’s and told the teacher, “My mom helped.” After that, the idiot (me) who mismatched the uniforms with the civil servants was relieved of homework duty.

But I couldn’t escape the big projects. The Navajo Village of 2008 will forever live in infamy. I’d bought all the supplies weeks in advance. All my oldest had to do was assemble. Naturally, he waited until the night before. We were up until 3 a.m. carving clay pots, gluing together fire pits, and setting up teepees. At one point, I looked at him in his little feathered headband and thought, “If I strangle him with this, would a judge give me probation and a spa weekend?” Spoiler: I didn’t. He survived. He’s now working toward a PhD in Biomechanical Engineering at Shirley Ryan Ability Lab.

And then came extracurricular purgatory. Dante clearly missed a circle of hell, because hockey rinks at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday belong right there. Four nights a week in freezing arenas, plus weekend tournaments in towns so remote, Lewis and Clark couldn’t find them.

Baseball wasn’t much better: either we were eaten alive by mosquitoes the size of pigeons or freezing off parts of our anatomy we didn’t know could freeze. Horseback riding? That was three nights a week in a barn that smelled like dirt, sweat, and Satan’s litter box. At least the horses were friendly, oversized mob bosses who’d trade affection for peppermints.

Looking back, I can laugh, mostly because I’m still here. The chaos, the tears, the horn-honking drama, and even the oatmeal turned art installation. It was maddening, exhausting, and completely insane. But it was our insanity.

It was a mess, and at times it was hell, but I miss it. Somewhere in between the lost shoes and the 3 a.m. projects were kids who grew up making memories. We were going through it together, as a family.

All of it is a reminder that parenthood is less about perfection and more about showing up, even if you’re barefoot, half-dressed, and fueled by chocolate chips and pasty beige oatmeal.

And we ALL survived, even my middle son. Today, he’s a top performer at Schneider Logistics, using his marketing degree to out-hustle the competition, and best of all, he knows where all thirty pairs of his shoes are.