“So,” asks the nice lady at church, “Have you found a job yet? Are you working?”
Huh, I think. There’s no shame in being a stay-at-home-mom, but I always feel guilty admitting to it, as if I’m not pulling my weight in adult society. I don’t want to answer until I’ve shown her my résumé, issued a disclaimer in triplicate, and introduced her to someone’s toddler. Specifically, mine.
Because, have you met Sophie? This sweet baby of mine has a personality that is one part movie star, two parts hurricane, and fifteen parts trouble. She is the reason I am a stay-at-home-mom rather than a stay-at-home-writer or a stay-at-home-gadabout.
And this is her afternoon schedule:
- Climb onto the bathroom shelf; dump out all the Q-tips
- Spill an entire sippy-cup of water all over the kitchen (how?!); repeat
- Get into the drawer of pony-tail holders; scatter across the bedroom
- Get the candles off my bookshelf; eat one
- Take off her pants and speed-climb onto Natalie’s bunk bed; pee on it
- Steal my makeup; randomly decide which to apply, which to toss, and which to taste
- Climb onto the kitchen table to get into the bag of cookies; take a bite from each
- Turn on MTV; dance
- Get napkins out of napkin holder; strew about kitchen
- Unfold clean clothes; place in laundry basket
- Dump out all the Q-tips again; pee on them
- Scream with joy until someone gives her an ice cream cone; eat it from the bottom up
- Sift through the trash; redistribute around house
- Dump out all the recycling; redistribute around house
- Steal my Microplane zester; lick
- Unpack the lower section of the credenza; run around with a casserole dish
- Ride her dump truck backwards into the kitchen; start the microwave
- Climb into the bathtub; wander the floor in wet socks
- Rearrange furniture so as to reach kitchen counter; dump out bag of sugar
- And pee on it
- Climb on top of the table at which Natalie is coloring; color arms and mouth
- Do three sit-ups next to me; sit on me for the remaining thirty-seven
- Run around the house with a limoncello glass; if anybody notices, throw it
19 months is adorable and horrifying, and I’ve never worked so hard at any job in my life. I thought teaching was a challenge, but it’s nothing compared to planters overturned on the rug or chocolate smeared across the wall, floor, and hair of a giggling girl. Or potty training. By the end of a normal weekday, our house is petitioning for disaster relief funds and my mind is curled up in bed sucking its thumb. If I’ve managed to edit an article or make it to the grocery store or shower, well… that’s just icing on the supermom cake.
“Well, are you working?” the lady presses.
“No,” I smile. “Not right now.”