Yesterday, I sat on the deck and put my feet up, book in hand. I had a snack and some water and put on my sunglasses. I was like a teenager on summer break.
For three minutes.
That was the total amount of time that my two sons slept in synch, and that three minutes was so luxurious that I really believed I was going to read a book.
But Oliver cried, so I went back to reality, the reality that my summer breaks are long gone, the reality that my life is completely accounted for, completely enveloped in responsibility. I picked up Oliver and rocked him.
People ask me what I do all day. As a stay-at-home-mom, I’ve often responded casually, shrugging my sholders like I have no idea how I spend my time. Sometimes I feel defensive, but I still leave it be, letting people think what they may.
With the newest addition, I feel particularly stretched. I’ve never tried to fit so much into my days. Right now, I average five poopy diapers a day and many more wet ones. I do loads and loads of laundry. I push papers for the small business that is our family. I go to the doctors. I cook and clean when I can. I read kids books and talk in a high baby voice. I throw a ball. And yes, I check Facebook and email and Twitter. On good days, I stay in touch with old friends. On better days, I find the time to read a few pages from a book off my shelf or write on here or work on my book.
Afterall, I am a stay-at-home mom, and I am myself – a writer, a photographer, a friend, an individual person with my own identity.
I’ve decided all these things are compatable. Of course, these aren’t the days to be selfish. My kids demand a lot from me and deserve every ounce I can give them. But, hopefully, my being me will bless them. Afterall, they are two sons born to a woman who was someone before they came along.
I’d hate for them to never get to know me.