Ten Minutes In The Secret Life Of A Stay-At-Home Mom

A friend emailed me about transitioning from working-outside-the-home mom to stay-at-home mom. You know, like, WHAT DO YOU DO ALL DAY?

So I sent her our typical schedule with some tips as to where to go for fun around town.

But I left out these ten minutes. And the bonbons.

Minute One:
We pull up to the house. I have two kids who have eaten only half their lunch and two sheet cakes in the back of the car. The front door seems very far away.

Minute Two:
E: Can I have cake?
Me: The cakes aren’t for you sweetie. Tomorrow you can have leftover cake!
E: I can have cake after lunch?
Me: No. Not until tomorrow. I know that’s hard to understand.
{contemplate texting my friends and asking how them feel about receiving a cake with a missing piece}
E: OK.
Me: {gaping mouth shocked into silence}

Minute Three:
N is distracted by the plastic red coupe in our front yard. E is holding the door so sweetly for her. Until I yell: CLOSE THE DOOR as the dog careens over to greet us and check his chances of running into traffic while I pant up and down the street. I hip-check the dog and close the door just in time. But now E, myself, two cakes and Rachet are inside and my 15 month old is on the front lawn by herself. Screeching because we LEFT HER.

Minute Four:
I place cakes on the stairs in the hopes that the angle will give me the forty-five seconds I need to grab N and get back inside before the dog gets pink roses all over his face. I nail it and give a high five (to myself).

Minute Five:
I begin to make room in the fridge for two cakes until I hear THE CRASH. I immediately blame the dog because my husband is still at work. But the dog is next to me making goo-goo eyes at the ham in the fridge. So I run to the front room as N smiles over two cakes that are no longer on the stairs.

Minute Six:
I crush the already jostled cakes into the fridge as E declares: I have to go poopy and N signs for a cup.
I scoop up N and tell E to go USE THE POTTY PLEASE while I grab a cup and the rest of N’s lunch and lock the dog upstairs to the guest room because he and N have a pact to share all meals.

Minute Seven:
E and the dog enter the kitchen simultaneously. And while I’m not surprised that E’s pants are around his ankle and his butt is un-wiped, I’m a bit taken aback that my dog can walk through walls. (I may or may not have started season one of True Blood.) I march my magic dog back upstairs while insisting E wipe his own butt. I remember to close the bathroom door as well as the main door. And I reprimand Rachet for shape-shifting to open it.

Minute Eight:
E finally sits at the table to eat. But instead of eating, he demands a new cup.
And by NEW CUP, he means his sister’s cup.
I placate him with a straw.
And by placate him, I mean enrage his sister by giving him a straw.
I give N a straw too and now have to open her sippy cup so she can use it.
Within thirty seconds my daughter and her highchair are covered in milk.

Minute Nine:
E: I have poopy in my pants.
I look and sigh.
But I say: It’s hard to make the potty with diarrhea.
Diarrhea. The worst word in the English language when you have two children and are on four hours of sleep.

Minute Ten:
N’s second diaper change takes ten wipes. And a third arm to keep the dog from eating her poop. And then my stomach lurches.

I left out those ten minutes mostly because I wasn’t sure if she could get her job back. And I don’t want to share my babysitter.

Disclaimer: This is meant to be fun and funny. If you read this as a SAHM gauntlet being thrown to declare who has it worse or better, you win. Whatever you do is harder than what I do.

Tagged as: Bathroom, Eating, Motherhood, Ratchet Dog