I’m a stay at home mom. Coincidentally, that means I stay at home with my children. But the definition does little to define my job.
I’ve heard, “Oh you stay at home? You have plenty of time to write.”
Not only am I a domestic Goddess extraordinaire (if somewhat teetering on my throne), I’m a chef–triple that since these malcontents think they should eat three times a day–laundry wench, dish-scraper, toilet-scrubber, story-teller, boo-boo kisser and sarcasm dispenser. And until my youngest learned to attend his own backside, I was the official ass-wiper.
With these aforementioned priorities, I don’t have a moment to scratch my butt in peace. A prime example is my blog post from a year ago. Please enjoy.
Some things, people are meant to do ALONE. Many of such things are tended in a bathroom. I’ll allow you a moment to contemplate…
No, not that.
Jeez. Let me help you. I love baths, take them as often as I can. Usually at night, after children are snoring. Hot water, bubbles and a good book? Ah, Heaven.
I decided to bubble-bathe this morning as I needed a little picker upper. Just as the water warms my ripe, round cheeks (bottom not top), I hear it–the gong of Doom.
My head hangs in defeat. I won’t answer. I. Will. Not.
“Mom!” Repeat 10 times.
By the time I hear the pitter-patter of stomping feet, I’m weeping into the water. Something blurry screeches to halt beside me. It be my oldest …angel.
I hold up a hand. Surprisingly, she is silenced.
“Is anyone bleeding?”
A perplexed frown forms on her face. “No.”
She shakes her head.
“Knife, scissors or pencil embedded in flesh?”
“No.” She sighs deeply.
“All are breathing?”
This is good. “THEN IT CAN WAIT UNTIL I HAVE FRICKIN’ PANTS ON!”
She disagrees. Strongly. “But mom! Nick took my pony!”
Wait until you see what I’m going to do with your pony…
Is it genetically ingrained in small children to ruin even the smallest of pleasures for their mother? And why the frig don’t father’s get this shit too?
I know for a fact that my mother did not face this. How do I know this, you ask? Because nobody with a quarter functioning brain crossed my mother. Ever. Should you utter a dissenting opinion, you’d find a stinging hand print on your face. And a foot in your fourth point of contact. And that’s before she got upset. It is easy to see where my lack of patience comes from. So, why don’t my kids know this?
They are far from stupid as they have my husband’s brains. I have in no way hidden my personality defects from them.
I tell my darling cherub that I’ll deal with the dissension among the ranks when I get out of the tub. She mutinously agrees, which is no agreement at all. Hastily I wash and shave all that needs washed and shaved and get out, dry off and dress. What do I find when I step out of the bedroom? All are playing together nicely.
What a crock of shit.
This is my life. After a long day of loving, life and death battle with my offspring, I race to my computer for much needed sanity. I write after my children go to bed. Notice, I said go to bed, not go to sleep. I’m convinced they have a secret stash of Coke rock they chew on at bedtime to keep them juiced halfway into the night.
I can’t count how many times I’ve yelled, “Get your butts in bed or I’ll slap you so hard your grandmother will feel it!” They have a grandmother that I would really, really like to feel it, but of course, I don’t slap anyone but myself because that would pull me out of the story, and though my characters wait patiently through the long days for me to give them attention, they rule the night.
Only when they’re satiated can I turn off my brain and go to sleep. When do you get your writing (or reading, or painting, etc.) fix?
My darling beasts.