What Do You Do All Day?

I got asked this question three times within a matter of one hour. I didn't appreciate it and nor did I know how to truthfully answer it. And then I found a link to this article this evening while catching up on some blogs. I'll just copy and paste it here, 'cause I'm sure there are some of you who won't even bother to click on the link.


Carolyn:

Best friend has child. Her: exhausted, busy, no time for self, no time for me, etc. Me (no kids): Wow. Sorry. What'd you do today? Her: Park, play group . . .

Okay. I've done Internet searches, I've talked to parents. I don't get it. What do stay-at-home moms do all day? Please no lists of library, grocery store, dry cleaners . . . I do all those things, too, and I don't do them EVERY DAY. I guess what I'm asking is: What is a typical day and why don't moms have time for a call or e-mail? I work and am away from home nine hours a day (plus a few late work events) and I manage to get it all done. I'm feeling like the kid is an excuse to relax and enjoy -- not a bad thing at all -- but if so, why won't my friend tell me the truth? Is this a peeing contest ("My life is so much harder than yours")? What's the deal? I've got friends with and without kids and all us child-free folks get the same story and have the same questions.

Tacoma, Wash.

Relax and enjoy. You're funny.

Or you're lying about having friends with kids.

Or you're taking them at their word that they actually have kids, because you haven't personally been in the same room with them.

Internet searches?

I keep wavering between giving you a straight answer and giving my forehead some keyboard. To claim you want to understand, while in the same breath implying that the only logical conclusions are that your mom-friends are either lying or competing with you, is disingenuous indeed.

So, since it's validation you seem to want, the real answer is what you get. In list form. When you have young kids, your typical day is: constant attention, from getting them out of bed, fed, clean, dressed; to keeping them out of harm's way; to answering their coos, cries, questions; to having two arms and carrying one kid, one set of car keys, and supplies for even the quickest trips, including the latest-to-be-declared-essential piece of molded plastic gear; to keeping them from unshelving books at the library; to enforcing rest times; to staying one step ahead of them lest they get too hungry, tired or bored, any one of which produces the kind of checkout-line screaming that gets the checkout line shaking its head.

It's needing 45 minutes to do what takes others 15.

It's constant vigilance, constant touch, constant use of your voice, constant relegation of your needs to the second tier.

It's constant scrutiny and second-guessing from family and friends, well-meaning and otherwise. It's resisting constant temptation to seek short-term relief at everyone's long-term expense.

It's doing all this while concurrently teaching virtually everything -- language, manners, safety, resourcefulness, discipline, curiosity, creativity. Empathy. Everything.

It's also a choice, yes. And a joy. But if you spent all day, every day, with this brand of joy, and then, when you got your first 10 minutes to yourself, wanted to be alone with your thoughts instead of calling a good friend, a good friend wouldn't judge you, complain about you to mutual friends, or marvel how much more productively she uses her time. Either make a sincere effort to understand or keep your snit to yourself.

Applause from me. This pretty much sums it up. But just to elaborate some more...

It takes me twice as long to step out of the house to run a little errand or visit a friend or whatnot. Yes, this was covered in the article, but I feel a need to discuss this point further. Just as soon as I've made her presentable, made myself presentable, have gathered all her baby gear in the diaper bag, have ran through my mental checklist of everything else I need before I step out of the house, the little one decides to poop. If it's a bad one, it requires a whole new outfit. This can easily add ten to fifteen minutes on to my time. Maybe twenty if I decide to attack the stain with soap and water before we head out, you know, just to avoid ruining another outfit that cannot be worn again by mine, or any other baby ('cause who really wants to dress their child in poop-stained gear?). Forget getting ready in 30 minutes, much less an hour. It's a joke in a mother's world.

The fact that it's two in the morning and my little one is sitting at my heels, playing with my cell phone, the only thing that will distract her long enough for me to get one coherent thought out, while I type this post should say plenty. Ok, yes, her sleep schedule is 100% messed up. I blame myself, I blame X, I blame a lot of things. But let's just forget her messed up sleeping for a bit. The fact that I now have to entertain her for probably the next two and half hours in this room and this room alone, lest I wake up the people with paying jobs, pretty much sucks. I've already cried tonight, as I do so many nights, just for the sheer reason that I find it unfair that I'm the only one struggling with this. Mostly I cry because Lucero was a consequence of my actions and she's irreversible. I can't toss her away, nor would I want to, but my Lord, just for a moment it would be nice to not feel alone in this, especially when I'm not supposed to be alone in this.

Yes, X is great with the playfullness and great with the adoration and attention when it comes to Lucero. He loves Lucero to the Nth degree, just like any father should love his child. But it's pretty easy to be loving, playful and a wonderful parent when you're only with your child for two hours a day. I'm with her all day long, and while Lucero and I share some heartfelt moments together, moments that will never be witnessed by anyone but God above, I still grow tired of constantly having to fill the role of caretaker. 'Cause when you boil it down, that's the basic service a mother offers. We throw in the love and everything else as extra measure, which really earns us the title of mother.

This doesn't mean I regret wanting to be a stay-at-home mom. No, not one bit. I relish the fact that I get this opportunity, an opportunity that is not even an option for a lot of mothers. If I added an eight to five to this mix, my life would be a living hell. I'd rather do one thing well than do multiple things badly.

I know this is a lot of complaining, but I'm sure more than a couple of you can relate. And if you can't 'cause you're childless, let this be your warning of what motherhood brings. It's not all rainbows and butterflies. Some moments will be great, but others will be the pits. The only thing you need is patience, and I'm working on that.

(Just for the record, Lucero is now "over" playing with the cell phone and has moved on to my makeup bag - anything to distract her, forget that she has a whole boxful of toys that seem to only hold her attention for two minutes at a time.)