A Head Start on the Day?

After a few false starts and intentional ignorings of my alarm, I rose before the children needed to with the intent to get a head start on the day.

The idea sounded great last night -you know, during that time I looked over the laundry, paper bills and tax forms, dishes, laundry, to-do list, messy tables, dishes, incomplete homework, laundry, cluttered floors, dirty toilets, almost-sleeping children, and more laundry and dishes- and told myself that I could go to sleep and address it all tomorrow.

An old picture, but somehow still applicable.

I neglected to recall how tired I am when I first rise.

So, yawning, here I sit, cursing my mental state, for not recalling that I’d need a day to fully wake. I can see why people drink coffee. I think. I’m actually not experiencing much clarity of thought yet.

True, I shouldn’t need much ‘clarity of thought’ to just do dishes or sort laundry. The problem with that is that I’ve pretty much run out of tricks. I’ve tried bribes, calm reasoning, yelling, and reverse psychology; but I just can’t convince myself to do the housework.

No matter what, I know two things: there will never be an end, and there will be more after that.

So, yawning, here I -oh, I already said that. Sorry; tired mom brain.

What’s a dead-brained mother to do? The toilets? Maybe after breakfast, I suppose. If nothing else gets done during this Magic Quiet Hour, I at least got some writing in.

And (don’t tell) some chocolate.


Photo by Levi Bare on Unsplash

Writing Gaps

A short time ago, the plumber needed to make a house call. Given that our domicile is only five years old, we’ve had (in my opinion) an inordinately large number of maintenance appointments. -And, none of the children has flushed worse than wet wipes (knock on wood).


Up until this visit, I’d had the house really clean if the plumber was coming. I knew that he would be able to see our least-cleaned areas: the master bedroom (the bathroom’s attached), and THE BASEMENT (where the plumbing-type stuff sleeps). But, we hadn’t had time to tidy up as usual for this occasion, because the problem was no hot water and that meant there were dishes all over and stinky children and I hadn’t showered so was in my excusable exercise clothes and everyone was running all over and I was a bit stressed about the whole situation.

The poor guy walked into the house after the children fought over opening the door, and undoubtedly saw all this. “I’m sorry, we …” I began.

I mentally heard myself finishing that sentence with the usual excuses. “-didn’t have time to clean.” “-haven’t washed since the hot water went out. Thank goodness you’re here!” and “-are fasting from personal hygiene for Lent.”

Instead, I said, “I’m sorry, we live here.”

(No, not, “I’m sorry we live here.” There was a pause.)


And so, I offer the same excuse for frequency of writing. I always have a goal of publishing posts in a somewhat-orderly fashion. At my main site, this is a daily routine until I hit a year. Over here, however, I was going to save them for when I felt snarky enough to pop something off.

Unfortunately, visitors, I forgot about a teensy little event called Summer Break.

Despite my bestish efforts, attempts to write anything with the children awake has been disastrous. They do that whole bother me every five two one minutes thing. I snap at the cute interrupter, only to feel like the worst, psychologically-damaging parent for telling them my writing is more important than them sharing the plot of Captain Underpants with me (again), so I apologize and listen to their story, then I pull a few children apart from MMA-type events ….and it’s bedtime.

I may have just summarized the life of a stay at home parent.

So, I’m sorry for not writing about motherhood. I’ve been mothering.

I’ll squeeze in a few late-night postings here and there, but you just might have to wait till Free Daycare (aka school) begins again ’round September. It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.

unsplash-logoChris Leggat
unsplash-logoSteve Johnson

Say What?

Funny thing about motherhood is that you don’t really have to do much to join.

Compared to other job trainings I’ve been to, the requirements are a cinch. Basically, you have to have a uterus, about 15 minutes of free time, and someone willing and male to help with something you learned about in fifth grade.

That, or you can pay for the result of borrowing those qualities from someone else.

I’m lucky; or, as people would hashtag, am #blessed. I found a totally awesome guy at a young age, married at a young age, and have never had difficulty growing humans. The problem is simply that I’m a whiner.

One day, I returned to an old topic of thought: Why do I resent being a stay-at-home mother?

I was, of course, laying around in pajamas while my husband was working hard at his job. I haven’t worked outside the home since I first was pregnant. We live in a house. We have cars, food, health insurance, and mostly matching socks.


That very question is the fire behind this blog. It’s the final sock down the toilet that got me to get off the couch and started writing. I hope, through the great deliberation of blog posts, to uncover The Answer.

I hope you enjoy the process, and that you contribute. I love other people’s input and advice.

After all, I can’t do everything around here.