I found an old resume of mine, which claims, among other things, that I am a superb multi-tasker. Maybe at one point in my life it was true. Clearly, there are many highlights from my past that I can no longer lay claim to.

Able to finish a sentence
Can dress myself in clothes that a) match and are b) stylish
Great with names
Honest and driven
Team player

Let's break it down, shall we?

Able to finish a sentence: Ha! Ha ha ha, no you may not have any juice, what was I saying? Oh yes. Ha! Ha ha get off your brother! Ha! Hmm.

Can dress myself in clothes that a) match and are b) stylish: Dude, at this point we're shooting for clean and get off of the top of that bookshelf right now!

Great with names: Yes, these are my children. Umm... this one is eight, no seven and her name is... wait, that's the other one. And you are? Wait. Who am I?

Honest and driven: I lie like a sonofagun on a daily basis. If you don't eat your dinner, your toes will fall off in your sleep. And then the dog will eat them up. Clearly I'm still driven. To insanity.

Team player: More like dictator. You! Over there. You! Right here. You! Yes, you. Stay put. Now do what I say, or I'm feeding your toes to the dog!

All of which brings us back to multi-tasking, the Holy Grail of parenting. Maybe I could do it well in a past life, but right now? I'm a struggling single-tasker, who can't remember her own children's names, let alone where my keys are and if that permission slip is due today. And where it might be. For little so and so.

My mother has maintained for a long time that I'm completely inept with the whole doing five things at once business. I do have my shining moments, but the reality is generally ugly. There is rarely a time when I'm not being pulled in six different directions. I make pancakes while I talk on the phone and end up with burnt pancakes and a confused caller wondering if I'm ever going to get to the point. I fold laundy while supervising homework, and find stacks of washclothes in the pantry.

Rather than feeling energized by the manic flow of tasks, I struggle to keep myself from simply sitting down and covering my eyes and ears. I get overwhelmed by the crush of demands, and I have to laugh at the nonsensical results of some of my efforts. My keys in the vegetable crisper. My shirt on inside out. Two different shoes. On each kid.

When I'm at my best, I'm locked into one task, and happy as a clam. Nothing turns my mood quicker than being called away from a project. I've been known to snap and snarl when interrupted. This makes me a lousy mother, because after 8 years of diapers, sippy cups and cleanup on aisle five moments, I'm feeling my oats, and I sometimes *gasp* flat out refuse to disturb my writing, showering, reading, peeing, conversing mojo.

I know! I'm shocked at my audacity too!

Just this minute, I turned away my three-year-old who wanted to show me a dirty plate in the dishwasher. And look! I finished a sentence! Wooo!

I'm a single-tasker. Hear me roar.