Every afternoon when my kids come home from school, they barrel up the stairs, unzip their backpacks, pull out their half eaten lunches, and thrust their classroom folders in my general direction at precisely the same time.
It’s a pivotal moment. The contents of the dreaded classroom folder will dictate how the rest of my day and evening goes. In other words, there is a direct correlation between the cornucopia of shit that comes out of there and the amount of stress I’m going to have to endure.
But now that my oldest is in fifth grade, I’ve had a few years to figure out a sorting system that’s really made a difference. Believe me the last thing you want do is just open up the folder and go through it willy-nilly. That’s what the dumb moms do.