What do I do all day as a stay-at-home mom?
First I inhale coffee.
After that, I feel better equipped to keep alive seven other living beings in this house who think they must be fed constantly, clothed daily, and wrestle incessantly.
I also am the cleanup crew for this demolition team. From the looks of their heads, faces, ears, my porch, my house, the tub, and the filthy clothes . . . this cleanup job will take a bit longer than most.
I will confess. I was mean. I made them strip down on the front porch and run yelling to the bathtub.
Somebody should smack me . . . it was hilarious.
And while I’m confessing . . . I will have to tell you that I gave them permission to have such a blast in the freshly-plowed field. There really is no logical reason why I gave permission – except that the kid in me wanted to play in the dirt too.
That kid in me really needs to grow up so my children have a reasonable chance at turning into sane adults.
I also consider it a successful morning when I can make it through the soccer game in my living room without receiving injuries to any vital organs.
Time to inhale more coffee.
I’m also the peacemaker and the judge. When somebody locks someone else out of the car, that guilty somebody is ordered to apologize within three seconds and threatened with getting dangled by their toes on the clothesline.
I’m also the pumper of egos – both big and small. The repairer of tiny broken hearts and the kisser of even tinier ouies. Some imagined pains are so small we can’t even see them . . . but we mamas know better than to question the existence of tiny tots’ ouies. We kiss them anyway.
I hold onto the feminine side of me and my one daughter . . . with every shred of strength I have. Sometimes it helps to tune out all six voices yelling “MOM!” and enter a world where there’s nothing but curly pigtails, chocolate bars, and scented candles. That is when I walk like a zombie around my kitchen until one of the six manages to make eye contact.
Then my pink bubble is popped.
I also wipe dirty, little faces and kiss soft, sweet cheeks.
Sometimes I get the order mixed up and end up kissing dirty cheeks. But I don’t usually care . . . unless my lips come away slightly sticky from the caramel Little Man just consumed.
Finally, it is time for bed . . . but nobody wants to go. Until I bring out the ultimate weapon of torture.
“Whoever is not heading up the stairs within 3 seconds gets a kiss!”
It works. Peace and calm descend.
Until tomorrow anyway.