if by 'a wing and a prayer' you mean 'they're lucky they've made it this long' then you're absolutely right

If the picture you're looking at up there were hanging in an art gallery, it would be titled one of two options - either "Untitled" (for that seems to be what damn near every piece of art I've ever seen hanging in an art gallery called) or "What It's Like To Have Her As A Mom" (aka - "The Peoples' Exhibit A").

This photo is absolutely indicative of what it's like to have me as a mom. That stuff wrapped around my oldest son's leg to hold his makeshift bandage in place? Masking tape. MASKING TAPE! Why? Because I didn't have any rubber bands. Or thumbtacks. Or duct tape (which is shocking when you consider I'm married to a man and I assumed it was the legend of all men to come equipped with duct tape)(or caulk, which oddly wasn't an option for adhering this field dressing)(and thank God for that, really). And I certainly don't have medical tape. Cripes, I'm not even sure I believe medical tape is an actual thing, but my Tool Man assures me it is. Then he suggested I might put it on a shopping list along with a new tube of antibacterial gel because the Neosporin I do have? It expired five years ago. Apparently, the only reason my kids haven't lost limbs to gangrene is because my expert care, which has involved everything from kissing the boo boos to writing them a prescription for "Suck it up, already," borders on magic.

Where the gauze came from I'll never know, but some was remarkably procured to lessen the bleeding before I implemented my other options, which included, but were not limited to, severing the leg at the knee (downside - additional bleeding) or using the ginormous wad of cotton that came inside my bottle of delicious, yet seemingly ineffective Wellbutrin tablets (Wellbutrin? Listen, the key word in your name is 'well.' How's 'bout doing me a solid here soon?). Seriously, what kind of mother - especially the mother of two rag tag, firmly believe wresting to be real rasslin', 'is your shoulder dislocated or are you just trying to scare me' boys - doesn't have Band-Aids?

Raise your hands in the air like you don't care because I'll tell you what kind of mother - ME! I'm also the one who never remembered to pack wipes, snacks or sippy cups when taking my boys out into the world as babies or toddlers, and have sent them off to school in the early grips of winter without coats because, eh, at least the sun's shining.

When my boys were babies, I regularly left the house sans one of the 8,302 pacifiers that were strategically placed in each room of our mansion and had to veer miles off course to make a desperate binkie buying side trip to soothe the savage beast in the backseat who'd screamed for miles and miles in outrage at my oversight. I've shrugged my shoulders and looked perplexed, perhaps even said, "Odd, you say? Mine tastes OK," when the boys tell me their milk tastes watery, never once allowing my eyes to dart toward the kitchen faucet, letting them know I temporarily bulked up the remaining drops of milk with water so they could have cereal (FOR DINNER!) because I (once again) forgot to buy milk while dashing through the grocery store. The evidence will be harder to hide the next morning when they learn I forgot to buy bread (once again) for their morning toast and I need the night to bask in the thought they still think me perfect.

Yes, I am the Poor Planning Mother. Always have been, probably always will be, and never am I more reminded of that fact than when one of my children gets injured. This hobbled-up, masking taped up boy of mine has slammed his face into the edge of a wall with such force it made the house shake (house - zero stitches, boy - five), and has served an amuse-bouche of raw thigh to a wandering hound that found the lean flesh tasty, though perhaps a bit gamey (dog - quarantined, boy - four stitches without anesthesia and one tetanus booster). I fully anticipate one day to come home and find the boy sitting on the couch, his arm in a Ziploc (assuming I actually have any of those!)(which I rarely do)(shocker!), wishing me a fine welcome home before suggesting a trip to the doctor. I owe it to this child to be better prepared.

So the first thing on my list? Tissues. Yes, I'm a mom who never has a Kleenex or wadded up napkin at the bottom of my purse when the kids need to blow their nose or wipe away the evidence of a meal or crime (or I need to wipe away the tears that fall silently when no one is around)(seriously, Wellbutrin, this is a call to arms!), and clearly, I need to rectify that because when my boy goes to rip that masking tape off his hairy little leg, it's going to hurt and I expect there might be a few tears wiping away those quite likely can't be done with a thumb and a little bit of spit.

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I apologize for the lack of response to all your delightful, amusing, and very much appreciated comments these past couple of weeks. I often sit down with every intent to respond to them, but then I often think, "Wow. I am so tired of my own voice, so I have to think everyone else is, too," and then perhaps some dating reality show comes on VH1 or, oh, look! They're decorating cakes on Food Network Challenge! and next thing I know, it's hours later and even though I haven't used my words, I'm still exhausted by them. Please know I very much appreciate you reading and very often making me laugh with your comments, and that I'll be trying to get better about getting back to responding to them soon (Wellbutrin...here's another thing you owe me...)