There’s a phrase I say about 47 times a day, and it’s not “I love you” (though, to be clear, I do). It’s not “Where are your shoes?” (a close second). It’s this: Don’t ask me, I don’t know.
I don’t know what time practice ends because the email said 5:30, the app said 5:15, and the group text said “around six-ish.” I don’t know where the permission slip is because I signed it, handed it back, and then watched it vanish into the same vortex that eats left socks and single AirPods. I don’t know what’s for dinner, even though I’ve been thinking about dinner since 9 a.m.
Welcome to motherhood in Westchester County—where the calendars are color-coded, the carpools are strategic, and somehow everyone still assumes Mom has all the answers.
Spoiler: she does not.
My days start early, usually with a mental checklist that begins before my feet hit the floor. Lunches? Packed-ish. Homework? Probably. Spirit wear? Oh no, today is spirit wear. Again. The dog needs to be walked, someone needs a ride, someone else needs a snack that is not the snack we already have 400 of. And somewhere in between school drop-off and a quick stop at the grocery store where I will forget the one thing we actually need, I’m expected to be the Keeper of All Information.
“Mom, what time is the game?”
“Mom, did you sign the form?”
“Mom, can I have a ride?”
“Mom, where is my—”
Don’t ask me. I don’t know.
Not because I don’t care. But because my brain is full. Full of schedules and sign-ups, and remembering which kid likes which granola bar, whether picture day is before or after the class trip, and whether I RSVP’d “yes” or “yes but with questions.” Full of work deadlines, school emails, doctor appointments, birthday gifts, and the quiet worry that I’m forgetting something important (because I usually am).
There’s a special kind of exhaustion that comes from being the default parent—the one who knows the logins, the allergies, the shoe sizes, the emotional temperature of the room. The one who gets the call when a kid is sick, the email when something changes, the text when plans shift at the last minute. It’s not just the doing; it’s the holding. Holding all the details, all the time.
And here’s the thing: in Westchester, it often feels like everyone else has it together. The packed schedules, the polished drop-offs, the parents who somehow remembered it was pajama day and brought the right snack. But behind the scenes? We’re all whispering the same thing under our breath while stuck in school traffic:
Don’t ask me. I don’t know.
I don’t know how it’s already Thursday. I don’t know why the permission slip needs to be printed when no one owns a printer. I don’t know how much longer I can survive on lukewarm coffee and the crusts of someone else’s sandwich. I don’t know when I last sat down without immediately standing back up to answer another question.
What I do know is this: it’s okay not to know everything. It’s okay to say, “I’m not sure—let’s figure it out.” It’s okay to pass the question along, to share the load, to let someone else check the app, read the email, or make the call. We don’t get bonus points for doing it all alone.
So if I answer you with “Don’t ask me, I don’t know,” know that it’s not defeat—it’s honesty. It’s a moment of truth in a day full of noise. And chances are, if you’re a mom around here, you’re saying it too.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, don’t ask me what’s for dinner. I really don’t know.
