All right, all right, I'll blog already!

If you're wondering what happened to my blog lately, wonder no more.
I've been in crisis mode.
It hasn't been pretty.
I think it can all be summed up in these words from an interview in the book Opting Out by Pamela Stone: "I've had enough of being at home, but yet I need to be at home."
The worst of the crisis has passed, which was when I was in my staring-at-nothing phase. All I could do for those few days was sit on the front step, stare into space, and read feminist books.
Then I got into my angry-at-everyone phase. This was where I flew into a rage at anyone who suggested that women had a "role" to do. I may or may not have thrown a certain new blue-covered book for women across the room--I'll let you figure that one out for yourself. Yes, I was mad that I had believed for years that women were supposed to take care of houses and kids once they started having babies, because it wasn't as rosy as I had imagined. But really, I was more mad at myself for not having prepared myself for a career better when I had the chance, and for sitting around feeling sorry for myself instead of making changes.
Now I'm morphing into the now-what phase (though I occasionally still want to take people's heads off when they start talking about the art of homemaking). I've flirted off and on with this phase for years, anyway, you know, checking the classifieds for job listings, counting down the years until M. is in school all day....But now, I'm trying a little harder. I'm querying magazines more aggressively, writing a couple pages in my novel per day, and contacting people I think might be able to help me get to the next step (the work/life field).
But it doesn't feel like I'm doing much. It feels like more of the same. I know it takes time when you're looking for a new direction, but things don't feel much different than they did before since I'm doing the same kinds of things. I know I'm not ready for full-time work yet, but opportunities don't exactly drop from the sky.
So if you know of an opportunity fairy who'd love to drop some freelance work/life-related writing work my way, send her right here. And while you're at it, tell her to bring along that money fairy buddy of hers, too.

Infestation

In a few hours, I'm going to have about eight little boys in my house. I have way too much to do to finish getting ready. So what am I going to do about it?

Procrastinate.

Some people love their kids' birthday parties. They choose some cutesy theme and get way into it. They stay up multiple nights, sewing elaborate decorations and buying fondant to decorate that cake just so.

Now, if you know me at all, you'd think I'm the creative type. I sew, I write, I play the flute. But guess what? When it comes to the domestic arts, I'm a few cupcakes short of adorable.

Take the cake, for instance. L. wanted a Lego theme party, so I thought I'd make him a Lego cake. No problem. Just bake a flat cake, and then bake some mini-cupcakes and turn them upside down for the connectors.

Well, it ended up looking like a flat cake with meatballs on top.


FAIL! I also made Rice Krispie treat Legos. Sort of. I tried to fill up some water balloons and I ended up with sore fingers and broken balloons (note to self for next year: cheap water balloons are just that--cheap).

Then, for my most brilliant move, I took the younger kids with me to buy L's presents. They got home and told him exactly what he was getting.

This is going to damage my can-do attitude. With domestic diva crossed off my list, my to-do list has shrunk. Maybe when the party's over, I'll get real crazy and put sleeping back on there.

Bah everything

I hate holidays.
Not that I think Christmas is particularly evil. I can make an exception for all the holiday spirit yada yada stuff.
This is why holidays are evil: The kids are home from school. Well, OK, I only have one child who goes to school. But when he's home, there might as well be twelve kids here.
And the husband's home too. Every wife knows that when the husband is home, it totally messes up her routine. I used to think, "Oh good! Holiday! Mark can look after the kids while I get some stuff done!"
It never works out that way, does it, ladies?
Because he and I stare at each other all day and say, "What do you wanna do?" "I dunno, what do you wanna do?"
Holidays limit our options. Libraries are closed. The post office is closed. Museums are closed. Of course the stores are open, but after taking the kids to the grocery store fifty-seven times the week before, somehow shopping has lost its appeal. And then, of course, it's raining or snowing. So no park, hike, playground, or outdoor play. Our day is filled with dishes, laundry, and breaking up fights between the children.
I don't know why I used to look forward to holidays back in the pre-kid days. I didn't know how good I had it. To me, a day at the office sounds more and more like a vacation every day.

Stress

Chalk this one up under "Things Nobody Warned Me About". Motherhood is stressful.
Who'da thunk it? I mean, don't mothers sit around all day in their housecoats and curlers watching soap operas? And since millions of women have done it for who knows how many years, it can't be that hard, can it?
Truth is, motherhood is more like taking a triple course load in a never-ending semester.
Let's discuss.
1. Money. Unless you finally managed to find a nursery that carries money trees, there is just never going to be enough. You can scrimp all you like, but your kids keep growing and eating and wanting toys. And they don't particularly appreciate it if you buy their shoes three sizes too big in order to economize.
2. Time. Another luxury triple-load college students hoard, judging by how little of it is left over for me. I'm not even talking about not having time for those cutesy little crafty hobbies those home-schooling mothers of eight seem to create out of thin air. I don't even have time to keep the house clean. I've been meaning to clean out the diaper pail for days, for example. And the dusting? There are some cabinets I haven't dusted since we moved in. When I actually have a moment to myself, the list of things to do is longer than the grocery check-out line. But usually going to the bathroom is first on the list. As I like to tell my kids, peeing is a priority.
3. Physical space. Sometimes, when I'm sitting at the computer, I move my elbows, just for the sheer joy of it.
4. Auditory space. When the kids are in bed and my ears stop ringing, I sometimes complete a whole thought in my head.
5. Oh, the pressure. Everybody thinks they know how to raise kids, especially magazine articles (5 simple ways to end temper tantrums) and people who don't have any. They also know how your house should look, how to produce the behavior you want, how to be a great wife, how not to lose your temper with your kids, how not to get them to turn out to be serial killers. So you feel like you don't measure up to the people who know better, even when "they" don't agree.
6. Oh, the frustration. How many times can you tell your child not to throw the toilet paper in the toilet until they get it? Why do you flap your lips up and down to suggest to your kid that telling you what's bothering him is far more productive than screaming? Why do you make dinner so that he can tell you how icky lasagna is and that you have to make him mac and cheese instead?
7. Oh, the built-up anger. See above. Then add kids whacking each other, bossing their parents around, pulling the cat's fur, biting you, and see how long you provide an example of productive ways to handle your emotions.
Then add cutesy little jokes from well-meaning clueless people about how little sleep or appreciation you get, how it's all worth it, how they wouldn't trade the time they spent at home with the kids for anything, etc. Really? That's too bad because if they want more of it, they can borrow a couple of my kids for a few hours.
Then take a deep breath (or a day off) and remind yourself that people who have actually survived parenthood say that it all passes, sooner than you'd think. Promise yourself that somehow you will live through it, too.

Shoot for mediocrity

I hate it when people tell mamas to stop obsessing about everything. You don't have to be a perfect mama, they say. Just do your best. My friend Diana used to have a quotation that read: "Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss you'll land among the stars." Not sure who said it. I asked the internet, and it doesn't know either.
I'm not shooting for the moon anymore. Not when it comes to motherhood. I don't fret about the shelf I didn't dust. I'm not really concerned about the junk in the drawer or the unorganized pantry. Nope.
I am aiming for mediocrity, and sometimes I don't even get that far. Who has time to worry about straightening their hair when some days it's a challenge to get a shower? Who has time to match their kids' clothes when they don't even remember to wash breakfast off their kids' faces? It's not that I think I have to be perfect. But decent would be good. Most days, I don't even get that far. It's kind of discouraging.
All I want is for my kids to eat, have clean clothes, and not impale themselves or choke on random household objects. But even that's too much some days, and the kids go to school with dirty clothes and very little nutrition while I scoop action figure heads from baby's mouth. So if you don't get to mediocrity, where do you end up? Just breathing, baby. At least we can still manage that.

Plagiarized post

This post came from http://www.reallifesupportformoms.com/. Enjoy!

Surely, for some women, being a stay-at-home mother is an entirely magnificent, totally blissful, always fulfilling, happily-ever-after dream come true.I’m not one of those women—and that’s okay.In my now seven-plus years as a stay-at-home mom, I know I’m not alone in having mixed feelings about having left the paid workforce to be a 24/7 at-home parent to my children. From time to time, most all women doing the job (and stay-at-home motherhood is a job) struggle with the challenges of this kind of in-the-trenches motherhood.Round-the-clock parenting often has as many downs as ups. The constant demands that come from being the sole adult charged with the care of little minds and bodies (and the surroundings in which they exist) involves a daily routine that many stay-at-home moms need both skill and fortitude to survive. As with any job, we have moments of feeling overwhelmed, overworked, unappreciated, and under-compensated. And all that’s before the 9 am start of the traditional workday.For a woman who, before motherhood, had a job she enjoyed, experienced career success, lived independently, and had an active social life, setting all that aside for stay-at-home motherhood can be a mixed blessing. It’s wonderful for a mother to be able to devote herself to the full-time care of her family—without the distractions, stresses, and demands of an office or workplace. It’s wonderful for a child to be raised under the constant care of a parent instead of a nanny, sitter, au pair, daycare staff, or afterschool program—or any of the other childcare solutions that parents need to piece together in order to earn an income. In a nation where two incomes are often essential to a family’s well-being, and where single parents need a job in order to pay and keep up with the bills, stay-at-home mothers are often told how lucky they are “not to work.”I know I’m lucky that my family has been able to live securely for several years with only one income, but being a stay-at-home mother is nothing but work! The surprise for many women who spend their days caring for children without end is that they work as many, if not more, hours than they did at a “real” job. The initial relief from the pressures of paid employment are often replaced by the demands of our stay-at-home reality.But putting aside professional skills and independence to fill sippy cups and push swings ican be tough on a woman’s sense of self. And although a stay-at-home mother is never without something to do, the day can drag, and entire weeks can feel empty of adult company or personal fulfillment. Then, in the rare instance you get to mingle among grown-ups without kids clinging to you, someone asks you what you do, and you struggle between saying, “I’m a stay-at-home mom . . .” or “Well, I used to be . . .” or some tortured combination thereof. It can make you want to cry.My advice. Don’t sugarcoat, sentimentalize, or reduce to slapstick the realities of stay-at-home motherhood.For those of us who have good days and bad, who sometimes absolutely adore and appreciate being home with our kids and sometimes can’t stand it, parenting books and magazine articles in which the author and interviewees gush about their love of being a mom and surrendering to motherhood just don’t jibe with all the realities. Ditto those who joke about the sleepless nights and messy minivans and days without showering—but, alas, each quip or complaint is couched by an “I wouldn’t change it for the world” sentiment. For the woman whose every mothering moment isn’t a greeting card moment, such rosy pictures can actually be demoralizing: “I don’t like playing peek-a-boo and going to the park every day. I don’t like being at the beck and call of someone else’s moods and needs. Sometimes I don’t want to be around my kids. I must be a terrible mom.”You’re not a terrible mom. You’re a typical mom.So hang in there! Even though you may be alone in your house right now with [fill in the applicable number] child(ren) crying, hanging on you, and demanding your immediate attention, you are not alone. Even though you may feel you’re flying a solo mission, you aren’t, especially when it comes to your conflicted feelings:
10 am: “I’m so happy I’m home!”11 am: “What was I thinking?Noon: “Being a stay-at-home mother is [fill in an adjective here]!”It’s okay to not always love being a stay-at-home mom. Women often fear that admitting as much is tantamount to saying to the world and themselves that we regret not being part of the paid workforce.The reality is, sometimes, some of us do regret leaving careers, or wish for something more. That’s normal. That’s healthy. It doesn’t mean we don’t love our children. It doesn’t mean we’d make a different choice if we had a do-over. It definitely doesn’t mean we’re bad mothers, or that we’re not doing a good job. Some days at work are wonderful. Some days are nightmares. Few people love their job every minute of the day. The same goes for the job of being a stay-at-home mom.

Labels: stay-at-home moms

Stir-crazy much?

Here are the top ten signs you need to get out more:
1. You put on lipstick to take out the garbage.
2. KFC is exotic fare.
3. A relative gives you some money to spend on yourself, so you head to the dollar store.
4. Your idea of going out is to stand on the doorstep so you can yell at your kids to come in for dinner.
5. You've maxed out your credit card on library fines.
6. When deciding whether or not to change your clothes, you use the five-stain rule.
7. You're on a first name basis with the Domino's guy.
8. You've worn a hole through the butt of your pajamas.
9. Your husband has to attend a seminar on the eating habits of Tasmanian cockroaches, and you beg to come along.
10. You can run a comb through your leg hair.

Jealous!

Two things happened recently which gave me a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. The first one was in church. Some of the young women leaders were talking about their recent trip to girls' camp. These leaders have small children, I knew, and camp was about four days long. I don't know whether they were there the whole time or not, but they were at least there for most of it. I couldn't really listen to what they were saying because the whole time, I was thinking, Four days without the children?

Then I went to my niece's birthday party. My SIL just moved to a new house, which is a little bigger than ours. And again, I had this funny feeling. I knew it wasn't the house. I don't want to move right now, and I'm not coveting her house (except for maybe the closet organizers. Oh, I would love to have closet organizers).

It took me about an hour of talking about it out loud with Mark before I figured it out. "Do you want to leave the children for four days?" "No!" I said, because I really don't, not while baby is so little. "Do you want a bigger house?" "No!" I said, because then I'd have to clean it. Here's what they have in common: these ladies, though they have small families, figured out what they wanted and then did what they had to do to get it. It was important for these leaders to accompany these girls to camp, even though they'd have to leave their families for a while. It was important to my SIL for her family to grow up in a better house. And so, somehow, that's what they did.

And that's where I have trouble. Not only do I sometimes not go after what I want, I even feel guilty about wanting it. Sometimes I don't even know what I want anymore. So Mark and I had a long talk about what I want. I'm still not sure how to go about getting those things, because whenever you want something, there's usually some kind of sacrifice you have to make to get it. But seeing these ladies who went after what they wanted made me ache inside because of something I've been denying myself: the idea of possibility.

SAHM Bill of Rights

1. I am their mother, not their slave. Serving my children also means teaching them how to serve.
2. I have the right to burn, tear up, incinerate, shred, or stomp on my to-do list.
3. I have the right to ignore or even leave my children occasionally to teach them that Mommy has a life.
4. I can talk to myself all I like. Since I get so few compliments, I am entitled to congratulate myself out loud if I want to.
5. I am aware that my children will watch what I do. I will affect how my boys will treat their wives and how my girls will mother their own children. Therefore, I have the right to be a whole and happy person.
6. With the possible exceptions of stinky diapers and bleeding children, I have the right not to do a particular household job right now if I don't want to.
7. I have the right to choose my own priorities. And if my priority is to take a nap, blog, or call a friend, the laundry can wait.
8. I have the right to have interests other than house, home, and family.
9. I have the right to a messy house. It is not a reflection on my character, which means I also have the right not to apologize for said messy house.
10. Childhood does not wait, but dishes do. I can play Monopoly with my children and the dishes will still be there when I'm done.

Children are the best excuse

I used to say pregnancy was the best excuse for everything. You can beg off almost any errand or responsibility by saying you just don't feel up to it. But you know, having a few kiddos around makes it easy not to have to do stuff, too.

It didn't start out that way. At first, kids were the reason I couldn't do anything. And really, it's true. No, I can't help you move. I'm kinda busy scraping baby food off the walls and floor. But then I got so used to not being able to do anything that I forgot that I ever could.

Let's take conversation, for example. There was a time, in my pre-pregnancy days, when if I said something stupid or didn't say anything when I really should have, I didn't have anyone else to blame. Then kids came along and I couldn't get more than five words out of my mouth before I had to feed baby/change baby/break up fight/scrape kids off the walls and floor. I would just sigh (because sometimes I really wanted to hear what people were saying) and go take the knife away from the two-year-old fingers around it.

Most of the time, that's how it really is. I'm too busy with Heimlich prevention to comment on what other people are saying, or else my brain is too fried to think of something to say. Like if someone in my writing group has their book reappear on the bookstore shelf, multi-syllabic words like "congratulations" elude me.

Don't worry about it, I tell myself. It's just mommy brain. It will go away eventually.

But what if it doesn't?

Sometimes, let's face it, I do silly things. Eventually, all the kids will be in school and I'll have all the time in the world. Will I finally be able to write tons of articles and novels, or will I see clearly just how much I procrastinate? When the kids move out of the house, will it really be cleaner or will I see just how much of the mess is mine? When I don't have to worry about being home in time to put the kids in bed, will I have friends again or will I discover that my anti-social tendencies are just part of who I am?

So I guess my message to myself is to enjoy my life, and not to use my kids as an excuse to be a bum. Maybe I'll blog some more about that later. After I feed the baby.

Let's get these definitions straight

Housekeeping: the stuff you have to do to keep people alive and healthy
Homemaking: the kid-raising, relationship-building stuff you do so that someday your family will love each other

Here's why we have to get it right--we get them mixed up all the time. If we think they're talking about housekeeping when we hear that homemaking is the best job in the world, that homemaking's rewards make it worthwhile, that homemaking is the most important role we'll ever take on, etc., we'll be disappointed. And we'll make ourselves crazy.

I once read an article by Anna Quindlen where she complained that she couldn't stay at home all day because she knew that doing nothing but worrying about defrosting freezers would make her crazy. This doesn't mean I don't understand the isolation and unfulfillment stay-at-home moms sometimes feel. And I'm a writer, too, so I get the importance of having outside interests. What I didn't like was the implication that staying at home means nothing but housekeeping. It feels like that sometimes when I'm drowning in laundry, but homemaking goes deeper.

I hate messes, I truly do, but I need to step back from the piles of dust sometimes in order to say to myself, "What am I trying to accomplish here? Have a perfect house or raise some children?" I didn't quit my job in order to iron clothes. I could do that anywhere (and get paid for it, too). I quit my job because I knew I didn't want to be apart from them while they were little (although sanity breaks still come in handy).

This homemaking stuff--being a mama, I mean--goes on for quite awhile. Sometimes it seems like the housework goes on forever, too. Housekeeping is part of the job description because outsourcing it would be difficult. I'm home more, so I do more. Plus, to be honest, I care more. I don't have a built-in dust filter like a man does. But it's only part of what I do. I also kiss knees, pull pasta out of kids' noses, take kids to the park, and break up the kids' fights.

The housekeeping is not what makes my family what it is.

I am not the best housekeeper in the world. I kill plants, I rarely dust, and I hate cooking. I like crafty stuff, but I just don't have time to make crafts a priority. The bathrooms are, honestly, gross. But I'm still a great homemaker because I do a good job taking care of my children. I want to be there for the baby smiles and the funny dinner comments. I'm lucky because I get to do that, and because I even get to do a little work on the side.

And one day, my kids will stop fighting with each other.

Children, or Broken Hallelujah

I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah
-Leonard Cohen, Hallelujah

It’s the fractured beauty of childhood that makes you cry. It’s the fat baby cheeks that you kiss, knowing they won’t last. It’s the soft skin and the piles of poopy laundry, voluntary kid snuggles and the screams that take your phone calls hostage. You can’t have one without the other (though you wish you could), but you know that even the jam-covered fingerprints will seem precious eventually and one day you’ll wish you’d saved them all and put them in some childhood-preserving museum. It’s all transitory and fragile—that’s why it’s so priceless and why you want to push it all away. You don’t think you can handle the threshold of childhood pushing its way outward from those little bodies into your soul. It all seems too much—the beauty that scars your eyeballs and hurts your spirit with its power. It’s not going to last. You don’t want it to betray you by leaving, yet you know it will. But it stands there, blinking its soft vulnerable eyes at you. It so innocently rips you apart and you don’t remember being reconstructed, so you pick it up and kiss it better because somehow it wants you and somehow you know that’s what needs to be done. And that’s how you scream and sing praises at the same time. You’re broken, pieces of you scattered in your children’s bodies and you sing and laugh out loud at the miracle of it all.

Housorexia

Some women obsess over their weight. They weigh themselves daily, count calories, and starve themselves because they hold themselves up to the magazine models and think their lives are meaningless if they don't look exactly like the airbrushed, photoshopped, rake-skinny ladies they see everyday. I don't mean to make fun of people who have this problem. It is a serious affliction. But I am lucky in that respect.

Fortunately, I have never had a huge body image problem. I also have never had an eating disorder. I don't hate my reflection or waste time despairing about how many calories I've eaten that day. I have a different disease you may not have heard of. It's called housorexia.

This is what I do: I look at the staged clean countertops, the perfectly coordinated couch cushions, and the unstained carpets in the glossy ads and think "Why doesn't my house look like that?" The children in the ads never have poopy diapers or holes in their clothes. The mommies are always smiling. And their freakin' kitchens are always immaculate! And instead of thinking something intelligent like "Those pictures were taken on a photo set where no children live," I think, "My house could look like that if I cleaned it up every night at midnight."

And how is that any better? We teach teenage girls that they don't measure up if their waists are more than twenty inches wide, and we teach grown women that they don't measure up if there are more than two crumbs on the floor. And the silly thing is that we fall for it.

Instead of thinking that I'm great for what I've done that day (kissed the kids, got them dressed and fed), I think I'm deficient for what I haven't done that day (didn't have dinner ready, didn't clean the toilets, didn't dust the picture frames). That's what makes it so pathological, just like the anorexics who are never skinny enough. The house will never be clean enough, no matter how clean it is. The distorted lens we see it through keeps telling us we can stop cleaning after we dust just one more shelf or scour just one more bathtub. But we never get to rest even then, do we?

The next thing on my to-do list is to change my thinking about my house. I'm sure I will post more about it in the future. My body is not starving, but my house is starving for some serious sanity. Next time I think something like "I'll never get all this housework done", I'll make sure to mentally add, "So what?"

That's a good question, by the way. So what? My house won't make the cover of this month's Better Homes and Gardens? My son's friends will go home and tell their mommies that Liam's mom has a messy house? Or (gasp) someone might come over and see the squalor? I'm not going to be a slave to anyone else's (imagined) judgment of my housekeeping skills.

I've got other things to do. Like feed and dress my kids.

femimama rage

It's ironic, isn't it, how staying at home brings out the angry feminist in me?
Here's what made me mad recently. I sometimes get emails from parenting sites telling me about Baby Girl's stages of development as the pregnancy progresses.The other day, one suggested that now is a great time to get my hair cut. That's fine, I'm all for preggo mamas spoiling themselves. But then the article mentioned a salon visit would be a good idea so I can look oh-so-pretty in those first mama-baby pictures.
So let me get this straight. I'm at the hospital. I've just created a new life after carrying it inside me for about nine months. I've been sweating, grunting, breathing, and I don't remember what else for several hours and now I'm holding this miracle child and meeting her for the first time, but I should be worried about whether or not my hair is cute?
This is why I think so many women become obsessed about their bodies, their hair, their looks, etc. Because at the moment when heaven and earth intersect and compress themselves into this small moment of life, when it seems like the world is irrelevant but for ten little fingers and ten little toes, someone is telling women that their efforts are meaningless unless their hair is perfectly in place.

Mama Kaylie and the Very, Very Good Day

This weekend, I went to a writers' conference downtown. I wore my (only) fancy-schmancy business-type pants. I left the children with Mark all day. I drove to the train station, bought a ticket, and rode on it like a commuter. I arrived early and talked to some grown-ups. Yes, folks, she can work it. I met an editor of an online children's magazine and another writer. I got my name tag (printed in black-and-white, no markers or crayons in sight) with my name on it. I sat in an uncomfortable chair and met more writing types. I listened to a presentation by a real, live New York editor and a real, live published author. I bought myself lunch which I ate all by myself. I didn't even cut it in pieces first. Then I wandered around to the bookstore, bought some of the books people were talking about, and strolled around outside without a stroller. I listened some more and met some more people. Then I had to run back to the train station in my grown-up dressy shoes (curse those very grown-up high arches and bunions), lost a shoe a couple of times, and sat down inside the train. I read a book all the way back to my station, drove home, and arrived there to find the children still alive and happy (Mama who?), and the oven preheating for our pizza dinner. Can I do this again next week?

Why I need help

Ha! I bet all 2 of my loyal readers had something to say about me after reading that title! Just kidding. I actually have 3 loyal readers.

Anyway, I was thinking about something I read a long time ago (I am so the less-effective writer who can't even give you a source) where some husband said something like this: "My wife doesn't come to my office, go to my meetings, do my paperwork, or help me out in my job in any way at all. That would just be silly. So why should anyone expect me to help with hers?"

Here goes. Sir.

If you're assuming that your wife's job as a SAHM is to do the dishes and the laundry, WRONG! Her job is to take care of the children. She probably didn't give up her career (or potential career) because sparkling windows were her life's ambition. It was because she couldn't resist those cute little dimpled faces. She may do more housework than you because she's home more or because you've agreed to that together, but that's extra. So you don't need to feel you're doing her job when you sweep the floor. Also, even if you understand that her job is child care, they are still your children, too.

How many hours a week does your job take? 40? 60? Her job is more like 100. Are you paying her overtime? Are the kids? Didn't think so. She puts in a lot more hours at her job than you. Not that we're keeping score (OK, we are), but sometimes she needs a break.

Also, she may not be proofreading your interdepartmental memos at the moment, but she probably has helped you with your job at some point. Like when she put you through school so you could get that job, or helped you study, or helped you prepare for the interview.

It's probably a good thing I don't know the source for that quotation. I don't think his inbox is big enough. But I'd be glad to share the responsibility of opening some emails with him.

Pay yourself first

"The world will in large measure pay you what it thinks you are worth, and your worth will increase as you gain education and proficiency in your chosen field." - Pres. Gordon B. Hinckley

I'm going to take this quotation totally out of context and write about what he didn't say. If the world pays me what it thinks I'm worth, then if it doesn't pay me, it thinks I'm worthless. How's that for depressing? Mamas who stay at home don't get nuttin' (unless you count child tax credits). Not only do they not get paid, they don't have access to ordinary job benefits like health insurance, Social Security, retirement, vacation time/pay, etc. Most mothers couldn't afford to take care of their kids if they didn't have a husband bringing home the bacon and the benefits. So as long as hubby is employed, employable, and sticks around, mama does OK. These days that's less of a certainty.

So mommies don't get any kind of help. And SAHMs like me knew that going into it, so we weren't shocked when the paychecks with our names on it stopped coming.

What's hard for me is that people equate no income with no job. It's not like I spend a lot of time socializing and answering ,"So what do you do?" questions. It's just that I feel like my job doesn't exist. Like when I'm filling out some questionnaire or survey and they ask me employment status and my choices are full-time, part-time, or unemployed. Or when they ask me what field I work in and my choices are arts, technology, business and health care (how about "all of the above?)"

I recognize that my financial contributions help our family in less obvious ways. For example, we got some pretty sweet offers on our condo after I cleaned it up and patched the walls. We'd be spending thousands more on child care and groceries but for my excellent child-rearing and bargain-hunting skills. That's essentially the same as making money because both saving it and earning it put money in our pockets. But somehow saving money doesn't get the glory.

Unless some politicians make some major changes, mamas are still going to be poor and anonymous for the next little while. And most of the world won't care. So apart from trying to change the world, the other responsibility of mamas is to find our own sense of self-worth. Because if we're counting on the world to tell us we matter (in the only currency it communicates with), we'll be waiting a long time.

Not going back to school yet (I think)

I recently got in touch again with a friend from college. She just got married last year. Since she graduated, she's gone to graduate school at a prestigious university, worked for famous corporations, and travelled all over the world (if you're reading this, Diana, I love you anyway). Jealous a little? Um, yeah.

I told Mark about how finding out about her life stirred up all the why-don't-I-have-a-cool-life longings inside of me. "Why don't we ever do anything fun or ambitious?" I said. Now, now, you might think, surely you occasionally do something just a teensy weensy bit amusing. No, we don't. We sit at home and place bets on which one of us will fall asleep before 9:00 first.

Mark, being the practical one in the family (meaning he sees the obvious while I'm still in dreamyland), said, "Does your friend have any children?" Silly man! Thinks that kids change everything!

But, being me (and the kids having an exceptionally whiny, obnoxious day), I have to look into every possible career and academic alternative to staying at home. I get on the internet as soon as I can and find out about GREs and employment applications. If I wanted to, I could do anything!

Then reality (which is conveniently forgotten in the ambitious wannabe rush) catches up with my dreams. Going to school or work would mean finding child care for two mama's boys. I don't have the money or the heart for that. And work is just that...work. It's hard and stuff. Then, today, the baby was sick and I thought about how glad I was that I don't have to call in to work to take care of him. And that I can write from home, but we're not so broke that I have to write from home.

My life is pretty good right now. But every so often, I have to explore all my options to make sure.

If the office was like motherhood

1. Your boss would ask you to do twenty-two things simultaneously, then yell at you for not completing item fourteen fast enough.

2. Your co-workers would meet by the smoking area on a regular basis to beat each other up. You would have to test your interpersonal skills by intervening (trying not to get your own nose broken in the process).

3. Your boss would staple his fingers, stub his toe on his office door, burn his hands on the lamination machine, and blame you.

4. During your lunch break, you would be expected to feed yourself, your boss, the secretary, and two coworkers a nutritious meal.

5. Your boss would come into your office, throw your files on the floor, get her lunch crumbs in your keyboard, and smudge her dirty fingers all over your computer screen. On purpose.

How to keep from going crazy

1. Get yourself a hotrod, girlfriend! Since we bought another vehicle, I have discovered that having the means to escape is more important than the escape itself. A prison is not a prison if there's an escape hatch. If I think I'm trapped, I feel trapped. If I feel trapped, I get frustrated.

2. Exercise. I'm not talking about walking around the block. I'm talking about breaking a sweat and getting those muscles moving. Exercising at home did not work for me. The children do not sit still while I work out and do not sleep if I wake up early. All the financial advice columns I've read suggest getting rid of your gym membership because you can't afford it and you don't use it anyway. Personally, I can't afford not to have one. The difference in my mood is marked enough that I now consider myself irresponsible if I don't get to the gym every other day. The kids need a happy mama.

3. Lower your standards. This one took awhile for me to learn since, when I was a teenager, church was all about having high standards and setting goals. But goals have to be realistic. A completely clean house is just a dream for me now. Set those aspirations a-plummeting, and life will be much more manageable. Love to launder? Muse about mopping? Buy more clothes and get a dog.

4. Laugh. I once knew a lady who had five kids who said, (you remember this, Christie?) "Sometimes I don't know whether to laugh or cry. So I just laugh." So take funny pictures, tickle your kids, jump on the bed, blog, call your friends...

5. Recognize your limitations. Like right now, my kids are sick, I need to leave, I don't have time to blog, I won't get the grocery shopping done...Too bad. Bye!