Dear Hot Mess Mama Friend

You were on the brink of a full-on meltdown the first time I saw you.

It was Kindergarten registration day for our kids, and Covid protocols forced it to be held outside in the kind of muggy August heat that made every step feel like wading through bathwater. The school staff was speaking to my overly-excited daughter while I stood on the sidelines, thirsty, hot, and deeply regretting my choice to wear pantyhose.

I didn't notice you until one of the school administrators called your name. "Did you forget about registration?" she chirped.

I followed her gaze across the street and there you were--standing barefoot on your cluttered front porch, a struggling toddler under one arm and a crying baby in the crook of the other. A crying pre-teen girl stood next to you, and a little girl about my daughter's age was riding a scooter back and forth across the porch. With each pass, she inched closer to running over your bare toes.

The entire scene screamed sheer and utter exhaustion.

You stared into the void for a moment, and then you sighed audibly and shouted, "Yeah, we'll be over in a minute."

They say that it takes a village to raise a child. In that moment, you looked as if all the villages in the country wouldn't help your level of chaos.

Oh god, I thought. That woman is a hot mess.

Our kids ended up in different classes that year--not that it mattered, of course, since they spent more time learning from home than in a proper classroom. And honestly, I hadn't thought about you much after that August day.

Until I was the one who needed a village.

"You should call my friend," a work colleague suggested after I cried to her about needed after-school childcare and not knowing anyone in town. "She lives by the school, and she's got a kid about your daughter's age. She probably wouldn't mind watching her."

And that, My Hot Mess Mama Friend, is how our lives intersected.

I don't know what your first impression of me must have been. I do have a mild case of Resting Bitch Face, and I've been told that I give off a "cold fish" vibe when I meet people. Maybe that's why the first time I stepped into your house, you looked embarrassed.

"Sorry about the mess," you sighed with a half-hearted wave around a living room cluttered with toys and laundry.

But I didn't see a mess. I saw a well-loved home. I knew in that instant that you were my kind of Hot Mess; full of flaws, imperfections, and good intentions. Who cares about the laundry piles on the couch, or the dirty dishes piled in the sink? Who cares if the walls of your foyer are covered in knee-height crayon scribbles? None of it matters when your daughters teach my daughter how to do the perfect cartwheel, or ride a scooter, or stash Hershey's kisses away for later? Who cares about messiness when your daughters call my daughter their "unofficial sister"?

I certainly do not.

You have the kind of easy-going, level-headed parenting style that I strive for. I've watched you handle blood, vomit, sprained wrists, and scary falls with ease and grace. And you wear so many hats. You're the crafty mom. The Cheerleading Fundraiser mom. The after-school hang-out mom. The artsy mom. The always-ready-to-help mom.

You're the mom that sends funny memes and Tik-Tok videos at just the right moments.

You're the mom who always has food and drinks for the grown-ups at the kids' birthday parties.

You're the mom who finds the discounts and shares the coupons.

And the thing is, in the two years that we've been friends, I've watched you quietly accomplish things that should be celebrated. You are raising four warm, funny, empathetic girls who will grow into astounding young women. You lead the charge to make the entire community a better place to be simply because you care. Yet never once have you asked for credit, or accolades, or even acknowledgment. You prefer instead to stay on the edge of the spotlight, lift others up, and do whatever it takes to help your village.

And that, my Hot Mess Mama Friend, is why I am forever grateful to you, and I consider myself damn lucky to be part of that village.