Five years ago, I got the dreaded email that moms like me hate to receive:
Hi Lindsay! Would you mind being the Room Mom this year? The other teachers have told me how organized you are and what a joy Henry is!
Now, it’s important to understand something: I’m not a Room Mom mom. I love my kids and have SERIOUS respect for teachers because I could never imagine dealing with 25 little gremlins (I say this in jest, as I call my own kids “gremlins” to their faces) on a daily basis.
It’s also important to note that being a Room Mom in Greenville, South Carolina isn’t simply helping the teachers make copies. It’s organizing Teacher Appreciation Week, getting gifts for the teacher for each holiday, making sign-up lists for each class party, volunteering at school events … and so much more—all things I am not good at.
Last, it’s important to note that I hate all things embroidered or calligraphied, I wear yoga pants to school events, and I am lucky if I have less than four meetings in a day.
But this was Henry’s teacher, and she specifically asked me, so how could I say no?
Sure! But I will say that I suck at baking. And because I am so lucky to have a smart kid, I have no idea what he’s learning at school. Also, I cuss.
And that’s how I began my service as the official Room Mom for Henry’s first grade class.
Well, I made it past the Halloween party without having to make the string cheese ghosts, I got through the school fundraiser by donating money instead of volunteering, and then it was Christmas. Which meant organizing a gift for the teacher.
I was clueless. Is wine inappropriate? Do they allow alcohol in school?
So I called my sister, a third grade teacher, and asked what gifts she actually likes. She didn’t hesitate.
“Honestly? Money,” she said. “We spend so much of our own. But above all else — do not give her a bag of crap.”
She went on to describe the endless collection of tote bags she’s accumulated over the years, all filled with socks, candles, chocolate, lip balm, plants … things that are kind, but not particularly useful.
“Please,” she begged. “No bag of crap.”
That weekend, I told Henry we’d get his teacher a Visa gift card.
“But that’s boring,” he exclaimed. “She needs something to unwrap.”
“Well what would we even buy for her?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “Maybe a bag of a bunch of stuff?”
[Insert face palm.]
I told him no, but he persisted, and his six-year-old, curly-headed determination won. So off we went to TJ Maxx.
At first, I tried to find something thoughtful and appropriate. But all I could hear was my sister’s voice in the back of my head: no more socks, no candles, no lip balm. Finally, out of sheer exhaustion, I looked at Henry and said, “Fine. You pick everything.”
We left TJ Maxx that day with a canvas tote bag containing, of many things, a ceramic change tray decorated with skeletons (“For next Halloween!” he said excitedly), a coffee mug with a dog on it (“I think she has a dog”), a pink picture frame with red hearts (“I think she has a family”), and, alas, a candle (“Because girls like candles”).
That night, as we wrapped everything up, I also included a $50 Visa gift card along with a note to the teacher:
“I promise this is the only bag of crap you’ll receive. He had to get it out of his system.”
The next day, Henry proudly took his bag of crap to school. Later that afternoon, I got an email from the teacher:
“Dear Lindsay, I died laughing when I read your note. I’ve never received as funny of a gift as this one. Thank you for reminding me to stop going through the motions and just laugh for a moment.”
If you are a mom with school-aged kids, you are currently in the hell of what us moms have coined “Maycember.” It’s a month that somehow rivals December in chaos, filled with themed dress-up days, signups for parties, awards events where every single student gets an award, special instructions for field day, the inevitable soaked clothing and shoes that follow field day, and the time of year when your kids bring home everything the teacher no longer wants as they clean out their classroom.
In our house, that has included a birthday chart, several math books, a pool noodle, bulletin board banners, and the leftovers of a prize box that somehow contained stickers, a snow globe, and a broken keychain. It’s a lot.
And that’s just the baseline.
Add to that everything else — the constant stream of news, the state of the world, rising costs, personal stress, sick family members, financial pressure — and it’s easy to feel completely overwhelmed.
And when I get overwhelmed, I default to five-minute scrolls on Instagram or TikTok, and lately they don’t feel like breaks anymore. Instead, they just add to the noise. What used to feel like a pause now feels like more input, more comparison, more to think about.
I recently read something by CEO of Lemonada Media Stephanie Wittels Wachs. She wrote about this strange, collective urge people are having for a “smoke break.” They don’t necessarily want to smoke, but they want what that break represents: A real break, or a socially acceptable moment to do absolutely nothing. Because now, the second we have a spare moment, we reach for our phones and we’re immediately flooded with products, routines, news, outrage, productivity hacks. It’s constant input, constant noise, and it doesn’t leave any space for us to just exist without being told what to do, buy, fix, or improve.
As Wachs writes, “It’s perpetual background noise. At least cigarettes ruined your life in peace.”
Boy did this strike a chord.
So today, when I felt that familiar wave of overwhelm, I picked up my phone, looked at it, and then put it back down. Instead, I walked outside and laid down on the driveway in the sun with my dogs. I closed my eyes and took a long exhale. Within seconds, I felt dog licks on my cheeks, and I laughed.
Maybe this is what I’ve really been craving: to be clear, not the cigarette (no judgment at all if you do smoke), but a break that lets my body catch up to my life. Somewhere along the way, I replaced stillness with more stimulation, and now, even my breaks don’t feel like breaks anymore.
So now? I’m going to return back to driveway laying, dog licks, tree hugging (yes I do that), and walking barefoot in the grass. My point here isn’t that we should all take breaks (duh). My point it that we take real breaks—breaks that don’t help us to escape our lives, but to actually return to them.
We don’t need cigarettes to step outside anymore. We just need to remember that we’re allowed to.
Sometimes, the most radical thing we can do is nothing at all.