Confession: I lost myself.

Somewhere between the second and third row of my minivan, I lost myself.

I didn’t even realize it until I received one of Hot Navy SEAL’s short little e-mails, “Thanks for the update”. It made me cry. ‘Update’ sounds so cold, so impersonal, so chatty and shallow and Christmas-letter-y.

He didn’t mean to make me cry. The rest of his e-mail (all 3 sentences of it), responded to the personal details I had ‘updated’ him on in sweet and attentive fashion.

The problem was, those details had nothing to do with me. I re-read my message, all 10 paragraphs of it. And it was chatty and shallow and impersonal. Of course, it was also witty and funny and well-phrased--I’d settle for nothing less when my audience was a man missing his home while fighting overseas--but between the talk of the kids, and Stuart, and the kids, and the kids’ activities, and the kids, and the kids’ friends, and Stuart, and Marshmellow the dog—for God’s sake—there was nothing of me. I fear there IS no ‘me’.

Sure, I know that I'm in there, in the way all Mommies are ‘in there’. Behind the scenes, the facilitator, the manager, the costume-carter and dinner-maker and carpool-driver and picture-taker.

Look at any family home. Notice the snapshots scattered around. I guarantee you’ll be hard pressed to find many with Mommy in them (unless they are the requisite family portrait). Why? Because Mommy is behind the camera.

I don’t know why this bothers me. I put myself there. I actually LIKE being there…watching my little family thrive, knowing (or at least hoping) that my efforts are helping them.

And it’s not like I’m a martyr. I’ve never been able to be the martyr type. Too selfish, I guess. It’s one of the reasons I work (besides monthly mortgage and car payments and the annoying necessity of food); at work, I run the show. It’s me, in front of the classroom, making it all happen.

But then, teaching is just Mommy-ing on a bigger scale. Because on the day we realize the fruits of our labor—graduation day—we are behind the scenes, taking the pictures, straightening the ties, watching those whom we supported and nudged and helped and pushed fly. You can’t MAKE anyone learn, much to everyone’s constant frustration and frequent chagrin.

Perhaps the Update occurred because it’s Summer Break, that magical time of the year when I get to be a full-time stay-at-home. That time of year that I am in full-time Support Mode. When it is natural that I take on more of the housework—because I’m home—and the childcare--because the kids are home—and the cooking—because I’m home and doing the shopping.

Maybe I’m just too hyper to stay home. I find myself looking at my kids—who are happily playing their own elaborate Kid Games and become annoyed when a Grown-Up tries to play with them; ‘Mommy, you play wrong!’ But I want to play. Not just because I like my kids, but because I don’t know what else to do with myself. The house is clean, the shopping is done. The laundry is done. Why? Because I’m on warp-speed from being Working Mom.

On Mother’s Day, my mother told me to ‘settle down and relax’. I don’t know how. I’m hyper. I’m driven. I’m Type-A, neurotic, OCD, perhaps ADD, and definitely a Control Freak. The only therapy is to stay busy and pursue perfection.

I’ve never found this to be a bad thing. I would worry that my pursuit of perfection would harm my children, but because I worry about that, my new idea of perfection is raising children who don’t pursue perfection. This is a complicated little dance, but seems to be going well. They are much more Type B, happy-go-lucky than I have ever managed to be…even after several glasses of wine.

I've always wanted to be happy-go-lucky. I have several friends who are. They float through life, genuinely happy with whatever Life gives them. ‘Sweet T’, my soul-sister friend since we were both conceived, used to literally live in a van down by the river. She recently traded in that van for a shiny new Honda Odyssey for her baby boy, but she kept her waist-length dreads. And “Big Dave” left a lucrative job in international finance to wander aimlessly around South America. Along the way, he perfected the art of drinking matte, had several unfortunate ‘chaffage’ issues, caught a nasty intestinal parasite and met a gorgeous woman from the Rio de la Plata region (picture Gisele, only hotter). They and my other ‘Dude, yyyeeeaaahhhhh’ friends smile good-naturedly at me as I plan and perfect everything. Their houses aren’t neat, their living rooms lack focal points and their Life List is written, if it’s written at all, on a cocktail napkin, a piece of hemp, or in the sand by the water’s edge.

My Life List is neatly typed into an Excel spreadsheet, color-coded and meticulously examined, cross-checked and revised every year on my birthday.

I’ve tried ‘letting go’. It drives me insane. I think this is why I so admire Stay-at-Homes. They are Zen. They have mastered the art of ‘letting go’. And I cannot. Working gives me structure and structure helps me thrive.

I LIKE being a perfectionist. I like making lists. I LOVE crossing things off my lists. I like being a little bit rushed. I get a swell of pride whenever I manipulate and plan my schedule just right so that everyone arrives at their respected appointments, practices, jobs and fun at the right time. Color schemes give me a thrill and filing turns me on.

Perfectionism gives me a sense of accomplishment. And I know that many say it is unhealthy and wrong, but others also say to love and know yourself. Well, I am a Hot Minivan Mom and I am a Perfectionist.

Frankly, I just don’t understand why someone wouldn’t strive for perfection. If I can’t be perfect at it, I don’t want to do it.

The funny thing about admitting and reveling in this rather neurotic quirk of mine is that by indulging my need to be super-organized, clean, etc., I can then relax. If my house is perfectly clean and tidy, I love to have impromptu dinner parties of ‘what are you making and does it go well with what I’m making so come on over’. If my schedule is laid out in my head (and on my phone, which is synced to my husband’s phone and the computer Outlook calendar), I know that I have time for an unscheduled Ice Cream stop or a random park visit. Because my clothes—and my children’s (Stu wears a uniform, so he’s easy)--are chosen for the week and laid out in labeled Day drawers in each closet, I can go a little crazy with a new hairstyle or accessory without upsetting the morning’s schedule.

The only place I am not perfect is in my minivan. The thing is a dump. Seriously, I think it’s a health hazard. I try to keep it clean, I really do. But I have never met a real, live, Hot Minivan Mom who doesn’t have a few stray cheerios, a couple McDonald’s fries, random toys, socks, school papers and all of the other flotsam and jetsom of childhood scattered around the van floor. And many of these women are impeccably groomed at all times (even for 8 am swimming lessons) and run homes that are immaculate. But the Van cannot be controlled, the Van cannot be tidied, the Van cannot be perfect.

It can start that way. Mine does, at least once a month. Or sooner, if the debris pile on the floor reaches ankle-deep. I don’t even clean it out: I go to the local no-touch-car-wash and pay up for the deluxe. The one with ‘shine rinse’, coconut-scented fragrance and 5 teenage boys making minimum wage to shovel out my car. I tip big and tell them to not even ask about whatever they find: just toss it. On more than one occasion, they’ve found lacy lingerie under the third row.

It feels so good to drive home in that clean, tidy, beach-scented car. I vow to keep it that way. I wonder why I can keep my own pantry neatly organized and all the socks in my home matched, yet drive a van that is, frankly, an embarrassment and potentially the next SuperFund site.

But 30-some-odd school drop-offs and pick-ups later, 4 weekends of parties and beaches and parks and playdates and dog-dates, 15 some-odd dance practices and golf lessons and soccer games and 50 Starbucks runs…and the Van is a disaster.

Sometimes, it sucks valuables into the morass and then, like Indiana Jones into the dreaded snake pit, I must go and find it.

Last night, the Van ate Jennifer’s tap shoe. Her tiny, size-6, custom-ordered, Daddy Spit-Shined for Tomorrow’s Recital Pictures tap shoe. I had hoped it had not gone into Van Land. I turned the house upside down, searched under the beds, tried all of the known places, but I knew. I knew I had to go.

And so, at 10 pm, I slid open the cargo doors, grabbed Stu’s cop flashlight (the big one, with the bright are-you-drunk beam and the heavy steal body..you know, to scare off any rodent-like squatters or alien creatures who may be in residence under the seats) and crawled in. I found:

4 little post-its with “JJJJJJ” printed proudly all over them.

1 paper butterfly, made out of Jennifer’s handprints.

2 shoe laces, tied neatly in a bow by Kathleen’s hands; a major feat for a left-handed Kindergartener.

My 2nd best pair of sunglasses, only slightly scratched.

A Daily Report, dated 4 months ago, from Jen’s preschool teacher praising her for saying ‘yellow’ clearly.

A journal entry from Kathleen reading, ‘my mom is cool’.

One of Stuart’s little love-notes that he likes to put in the girls’ lunches when he has to work swing shift and can’t tuck them into bed.

Another of his notes that he likes to put in my lunch when he works graveyard shift and can’t tuck me into bed, either.

A piece of my gardening shoe with Marshmellow’s toothprints all over it.

A black lacy Victoria’s Secret thong from a date-night tryst with my husband in the parking lot behind the Dairy Queen.

One tiny, size-6, custom-ordered, Daddy Spit-Shined for Tomorrow’s Recital Pictures tap shoe.

And me. Because there I was, right where I had left myself, strewn about the floor between the second and third row.