I Don't Have a Job - I Just Look Like I Do.

One of my chickens started laying eggs the other day. Hallelujah! It's about time someone started pulling their weight around here.

As I type this, my husband is at Barbacoa entertaining some sort of tile client or rep or person-who-could-somehow-make-us-a-tiny-bit-less-poor.

I ate stale Chex Mix for dinner while standing at the sink catching up on dishes.

First off, I'm not telling you this because I'm looking for applause or sympathy. Well, maybe sympathy. I'm telling you this because I know every woman reading this has the same type of schedule and can completely understand where I'm coming from. I'm also bored.

Come, let us hysterically cry together.

I woke up early this morning after not sleeping the night before because my husband was out late at a trade show. It's not that I couldn't sleep because we weren't curled up in bed together, or because I missed him, or anything pukey and romantic. I couldn't sleep because I was imagining all the women who have a "real job" that were out shmoozing with him.

I don't even pretend to have a "real job" and I'm not one of these women that say, "I work inside the home." That's a bunch of chicken poop. If I'm not getting paid, it's volunteer work. Getting to catch 15 minutes of Maury Povich does not qualify as renumeration, so everything I did today was for charity.

Back to the story - so I woke up groggy and baggy-eyed and made the kids breakfast. We all got dressed and then I dropped off Child A at a friend's house because it was "National Walk to School Day." Whoever thought it was a good idea to make children want to walk to school in October ought to be given multiple rug burns. Thank you to Gretchen who was gracious enough to lead the death march to first grade for me.

Next, I pick up Child B's little sidekick and drop them both off at preschool. A bit of yakkity-yak and then back home where I start cleaning because a) I'm a neurotic clean freak and b) my husband's parents are coming for a visit tomorrow.

I sweep and mop the kitchen floor, on my hands and knees no less, then bleach the counters (dumb white tile and grout) and finish up breakfast dishes. I start the first of what will be 8 loads of laundry. I wash all the bed sheets, including Child B's comforter which has developed suspicious, alien stains.

I start dusting. I inhale the nasty garbage that floats down from ceiling fan blades. I clean two bathrooms, collect my measly chicken egg, and head back to preschool to pick up Child B.

I come home, make lunch for Child B who wants mac n' cheese. I overcook it while folding a load of whites. Child B refuses mass of gooey noodles.

An hour later I am taking Child B to speech therapy so that she won't be teased for saying yewwow instead of yellow. I haven't had a chance to eat yet, so I pull into a crowded Sonic and order a plain burger and a diet Coke. I wait 10 minutes. We're late. I leave with no food.

After speech therapy we come home, and I decide to Windex a few windows and the patio door which are covered in the dog's nose snoodle.

45 minutes after I get home, I'm in the car again to pick up Child A from school. We're busy tonight, so we go to Burger King where I completely forget that I need to order dinner, and leave without anything for myself. (By the way, fast food is a luxury - so the fact that I had two missed opportunities in one day to have someone else make me food is unbelievable.)

Kids eat an early, greasy dinner while I get ready to leave for choir practice and a Bible study. The kids decide that now they LOVE our viscious, biting, un-vaccinated cat and start pulling out string and pipe cleaners from a drawer so that they can torture it.

I throw on a third coat of makeup, change my shirt, shelack my hair and take the kids over to my Mom's because, again, my husband is working late tonight.

Choir - done. Good.

Bible study - done. Very good.

Come home, chat with Mom who has brought children back home (darn). Complain about weight, work, money and to-do lists.

Put in three more loads of laundry. Dispose of BK dinner remnants. Stab myself under the finger nail with errant purple pipe cleaner. Do dishes (again.) Sweep one more time (if you don't keep up on it the crud will travel further into the house and make babies.)

I sit down at the computer and decide I've got enough material to write a little something.

Finally, I can think!! It's time to do something deliciously selfish for myself. As I type in my password my email keeps dinging at me - new mail, new mail, new mail...

Then the phone rings... Husband. He's on his way home.

Darn.




(c) 2009, Kelsey Robbins