Being a work-at-home mom gets me no respect. I’ve got one foot in happy homemaker land and one foot in driven career woman terrain and apparently I’m not doing either too well. Evidenced by dishes in the sink from yesterday and an article due yesterday.
I find very few people who truly get what I do and the demands on my time it takes to be both stay-at-home mom and successful writer. This includes my own husband and children.
Case in point:
This morning as I raced around getting breakfast going, lunches made, dog fed and de-pooped and homework folders signed off, I was simultaneously jumping on the computer trying to get an article submitted before noon East Coast Time. Before jumping in the car to take the kids to school I ran to the back of the house to grab my gym bag, hoping against hope to squeeze in a workout sometime today.
I was feeling good that we were on time, everything accomplished when suddenly I notice my son fighting back tears. “What’s wrong?” I asked, my motherly concern about to be thrown back in my face.
“I’m going to miss five minutes of recess and I was ready on time!” he said squarely pointing the blame on me for this huge injustice in his life.
Oh no, no – I don’t think so. The boy better check his watch because it was time for a wake up call.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I began in shrill sarcasm that would soon ramp up to the wail of a warning siren, “I’m sorry I have a job to do, that I actually get paid for, unlike making your lunch which if you wanted a full 15 minutes of morning recess instead of 10 then maybe you should have taken care of that. Or maybe breakfast. I don’t remember seeing anyone jump up to make breakfast. Or take the dog for a walk so he won’t poop in the house. Oh, but you don’t pick up poo do you? Mommy’s the poo picker-upper. And have you ever, EVER, been late for school? Never. So wipe away your tears, suck it up and take one for the team Logan!”
Poor kid took a direct hit on that short-fuse landmine.
We were all cool by drop-off, but after a quick trip to the gym and a shower, instead of putting on my usual work uniform of my coziest comfy pjs (which might have a tinge to do with my image problem), I put on my new favorite shirt I recently won in a writing contest. Interestingly, I’ve been commanding more respect lately when I wear it.
It reads: Careful, or you’ll end up in my novel.