For those of you who have spent any time in corporate life, at some point you have likely been subjected exposed to a concept called strategic planning. In simplified terms, it’s a process where the head honchos meet to hash out the vision, mission and longer-term strategies of the business. Eventually these lofty strategies are operationalized into real work and aspects of them turn up in your performance objectives for the coming year. There are metrics, dashboards and balanced scorecards that must be measured and reviewed monthly by you and your colleagues.

Some people groove on this stuff. For my part, my eyes glaze over and I go directly into “flight” mode. Just writing about all of this is making me a little anxious and queasy. Excuse me while I pour myself a drink.

Despite my distaste for this necessary evil of running a successful business, I have come to the realization that my life in the Jam Gen also has measurements and metrics that tell me how well I am doing. And, no, I don’t have a strategic plan – unless wanting to retire early qualifies?

My main means of knowing how well I am navigating my Jam Gen life is gauging my stress level. Accordingly, I have developed the following scale for my own personal dashboard based on rigorous observation and testing over the past twenty-five years or so. Totally scientific, I promise!

Level One (Excellent/Thriving) – These are the good days where I feel in control of my life. I am on top of my “To Do” list and even have the time to impose “To Do” lists on other members of the family. The house is neat and tidy, and it reflects the adage of “a place for everything and everything in its place”. All family members are eating home cooked meals together. Sleep is plentiful. Having friends over is fun. I live for these days. Most years I can count them on one hand.

Level Two (Good/Coping) – At this point, I am still coping and feeling friendly. I just need to give up a couple of hours of sleep to get on top of things. The house is beginning to get untidy, but close friends and family are still allowed in for informal get togethers. We order in pizza because cooking and the resulting clean up is too much trouble. In other words, this is situation normal and represents a good week.

Level Three (Fair/Struggling) – At this stage, I have given up cooking completely. The family is eating out/ordering in almost daily. Take out containers overflow from the recycling bin and garbage. Personal hygiene lasts as long as there is clean clothing to pull out of the closet, even if it doesn’t always match perfectly. There is dust, but I pretend not to see it. The children are beginning to look at me with fear in their eyes. They are on the cusp of preferring to starve than daring to ask me for lunch money because there are no leftovers in the fridge. They enter the breach only when my signature is needed on permission slips for a school-related activity.

Level Four (Poor/Drowning) – The house is total chaos. I can’t see the dining room table, toys are everywhere, my night table is so full that I can’t find the book I am reading, and the chair in the bedroom has five days worth of cast-off clothing lying on it. The only people who still call me are unwitting telemarketers – I answer the phone just so I can snarl at them. I don’t talk to my friends anymore as an act of mercy and in an attempt to preserve the friendship. The kids are cowering under their beds with their bedroom doors locked and phones set on mute, ready to dial 911 in case the avalanche (otherwise known as their loving mother) is set off by an uncontrolled fart.

Level Five (Complete Fail/Non-Responsive) – There is no sign of sane life in the house. I am moving at slime mold speed, but with my aggression level set to “wolverine” status. The dust bunnies are looking mutinous and the bathrooms are growing new lifeforms. My closet has developed an echo when I go in there to scream and I need to hire a St. Bernard to sniff out the washing machine under a pile of discarded socks and dirty underwear the size of Kilimanjaro. The kids have stopped asking me to put them to bed or sing them their favourite bedtime songs. Older children have fled the house and moved in with friends. They will only communicate through text. My mother has ceased to call for technical support because she would rather wait on hold for 45 minutes to speak to customer service at her internet service provider as the agents are apparently friendlier and more helpful than I am.

Right now, most of the measurements on my dashboard are flashing green. I wouldn’t be writing this if that weren’t the case. But I know that just one phone call from the nursing home telling me my mother has been sent to hospital or an email from a teacher can flip that dashboard to red in an instant. The illusion of control is always just one crisis away from crumbling. I live for the green days on my personal dashboard – may they last forever!

Now, where was that drink? Cheers to living the Jam Gen!