Journey back from oblivion

It is New Year’s Day 2011. I spent the day driving two and a half hours to the Canadian border to visit friends in Vancouver. When we got to the border, my husband and I were told that we could not take our two babies into Canada because they did not have their birth certificates. You would think we would have checked on that kind of thing before leaving home – but that is not the way we roll, baby. In fact, being in charge of details is so not the way we roll that when we drove two and a half hours back home to get the birth certificates, we discovered that we did not have them. Rot roh. After freaking out a bit, we realized the birth certificates were in the suitcase we accidentally left on the plane when we moved to Seattle from New England four months ago. Rot roh.

Those readers who tend to be among the enviable and organized may have reached a cold sweat by now, but this is really how we roll. I am not kidding. Our entire family of two adults and seven children has shown up to the airport only to realize our tickets were for an airport in another state. We missed out on photos of the family swimming with dolphins because we called the day AFTER the 30-day old photos were destroyed (to our credit, Disney did tell us we had a month, and a month can be 31 days). And we have always, ALWAYS filed for extensions on taxes. In fact, we’ve even filed for extensions on our extensions a few times. That is just a given. This is what happens when one visionary marries another, you may be super happy and blissfully in love – but very little actually gets done.

And it seems we are nearing a bit of a boiling point here. Why? Is it because I spent 5 hours in a car and a half hour talking to a humorless border control officer (who doesn’t like it when you try to grab your passport back from him) because of my own stupidity? Or, maybe it is because we decided the other day to take a look at the credit card bills we so joyfully use to support our every whim, and we discovered that we are $50,000 in debt. Rut roh. Then again, maybe it is because about a month ago I received a subpoena for my arrest because of an unpaid $18.00 excise tax bill. When the shit starts hitting the fan with this kind of eighteen-dollar intensity, it is best to take a step back and examine whether or not you are on a superhighway to crazy town. Truth is, I may have just crossed that particular city limit and it may be time to throw the car in reverse.

Now, I can come up with all kinds of reasons for flirting with disaster in this way. In the past six months I had a baby, moved across country, and gone from kids in public school to homeschooling. It’s a lot to bite off and it is no wonder my mouth still feels full as I try to chew on all that. But, if I am honest with myself, I will also note that I am always choking on some kind of high drama and have just never been a cross your “T”s and dot your “I”s kind of girl. Being oblivious is part of my charm. But being oblivious is colliding head on with managing a house full of precocious children and I simply must be on top of my game. Today as I tore apart my “filing system” consisting of an enormous Edible Arrangement bag stuffed with unopened mail, layers upon layers of folders and labels (these are supposed to help me, right?), sprinkled with receipts – it’s like the tiramisu of organizational systems – my husband lovingly assured me that simply knowing you have a problem is incredibly powerful. I know he is right, and although I have managed to feel both oblivious and powerful, it is now time to take better care of my life.

So, I am making 2011 the year when I at least know what I am stepping through. I order copies of birth certificates, I reclaim my IRA money that was in the “Unclaimed Properties” room of Fidelity, and make sure no one has a reason to arrest me. At least not a boring one.

And speaking of which, is it our fault that the Canadian border patrol fails to offer free child care for Americans journeying north to party with their friends? I don’t think so, eh? More from Karen: