Why I Should Be a Stay at Home Mom.
Fantasy vs Reality: Based on fact, though no facts were actually used.
I want
So badly
To be a stay at home mom.
Fantasy:
Awaken. Feed the baby. Make breakfast for my 6 year old. Pack a healthy lunch for her. Go ahead and stick a note in her lunchbox, but only with words that she’ll easily recognize… “I love you more than SKITTLES.” Throw a fun pack of Skittles in there for a treat. She’ll think that’s a riot! Tell her she looks beautiful as I gently help her to untangle the rat’s nest that’s formed on the back of her head from sleeping so soundly on damp hair. Damp hair means she took a shower last night. A shower last night means that we had plenty of time to finish her reading level assignments, sight words, and whatever else found its way to our kitchen table via that trusty, plastic folder that her teacher obviously looks in daily, however repeatedly fails to respond to the notes I send to her. I bet she’s just cranky because she has to be at work all day…and I get to be a stay at home mom. I’ll add her to my prayer list. Oh, you don’t have a prayer list? Probably because you don’t have time, because all of your extra time is spent working. You should really look into being a stay at home mom, too. After taking her to school (which I would be able to do…except on the mornings in which I would have my Sunrise Yoga Small Group with other stay at home moms from our church…on those days, she’d ride the bus…because realistically she has to get her incorrect and exaggerated information about intercourse and male genitalia from someone a few academic years ahead of her; the bus is the best place for that to happen), I would go home and have a cup of coffee. I would let my baby squirm on his tummy until he felt bored and declared Snuggle Time via whines and grunts. Please note: If I were a stay at home mom, my baby would never actually cry. Please note again: If I were a stay at home mom, there wouldn’t be dog hair in the carpet…so I wouldn’t have to hover in the baby’s face to continually pick stray, floating hairs from his slobbery lips and chin. After Snuggle Time…and feeding time…and reading time…it’ll be nap time. While he naps, I’d transfer the clothes from the washer to the clothesline (the load I started prior to heading out the door for my Sunrise Yoga Small Group…and, yes, a clothesline…like, where you hang your clothes to dry in the sunshine, naturally)…and the clothes headed to the great outdoors would be free of stains, because I had the time to pre-treat all of the spots with my homemade elixir (which is, of course, free of dyes…and virtually all chemicals…In fact, it’s made with only natural ingredients…it’s so gentle, you could eat it and you wouldn’t get sick at all…In fact, sometimes I have a spoonful just for the nutrients…)…and the clothes coming from the clothesline would be either hung in the appropriate closet or folded nicely and stacked in a convenient place for my daughter to put her own clothes away, because we need to teach her work ethic and independence… The kitchen would, of course, be spotless…and the dishes would be done. I wouldn’t even use the dishwasher anymore, because it’s so much more environmentally sound to hand wash our dishes…and it saves us a bundle on unnecessary bills… I would pick up my daughter from school and she’d greet her brother with giggles and kisses…and she’d be so excited to tell me about her day…and I’d be so excited to hear about it because I’d have the energy to keep up with her. We would get home, and she’d have time to play outside with friends from the neighborhood and I’d have dinner on the stove. My husband would walk in the door and say, “Ohhh, wow!…Something smells amazing! Where is that beautiful, little wife of mine?” My daughter would come inside at 4:30 to practice her reading level assignments, sight words, and whatever else found its way to our kitchen table via that trusty, plastic folder that her teacher obviously looks in daily, however repeatedly fails to respond to the notes I send to her.
Oh…shit. Silly me…I’m repeating myself.
That might be because —
Reality:
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