Homemaker

Last week I had my annual physical with a new doctor. The first ten minutes of the appointment consisted of me answering a series of inane questions. (Do you do street drugs? Um, no. What is your stress level on a scale of 1 to 10. An eleven. How many drinks do you have per week? One. Okay, fine...three.)

And then she asked me a perfectly normal question: What do you do?
What do I do? How do I even begin to answer this question? How much time do you have, lady?

I spend my mornings making sure my daughter doesn't stick her hand in the toilet, and I change a lot of diapers... cloth diapers, so then I have to wash them. I cut up bananas and kiwi and grapes into pieces that are small enough so they're not a choking hazard yet large enough that my daughter can easily pick them up and shove them in her mouth. This is harder than it sounds. 

I spend a large part of my day preparing my daughter for her depressingly short naps. I read the same three board books about 5 times, sing off-key versions of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and "The Wheels on the Bus", and do my best to zip up her sleepsack before she can wiggle out of it. Then I rock her, place her in her crib, and pray that she will sleep long enough for me to eat my lunch. 

My daughter hates the car, so we don't venture too far, but we go to story time a few days a week at the Highlands Ranch Public Library where she completely ignores the story and prefers instead to take random books off the shelf, so I'm left trying to put them back in the right spot while simultaneously keeping her from shoving another child's toy in her mouth. 

I also do a lot of laundry and cleaning. Our "stainless" steel refrigerator is never without tiny handprints and I find Cheerios in the oddest of places. My daughter has an obsession with the vacuum, so sometimes when I feel as though the day is dragging, I vacuum not because the floor is dirty, but because I don't know how else to distract my daughter until dinner. 

We go on several walks each day, usually to the park. Once we're there, I push my daughter in the swing (Does this count as a form of "regular exercise"? If yes, please change my answer to your previous question.) and then spend the remainder of the time stopping her from eating the sand in the sandbox. 

I'm a former teacher, so I spend about 30% of my day obsessing about my daughter's development. I narrate my every move in an effort to prevent speech delay, and I show her alphabet flashcards, which she inevitably ends up either a) shoving into her mouth, or b) hurling in the general direction of our 5 pound chihuahua. 

When my daughter is finally napping, I scarf down my lunch (usually whatever happens to be left on her high chair tray) and google normal-ish phrases such as, "Can ear infections be fatal?" and "potty training at 12 months". 

At some point between 8 am and 3 pm I remember to let our dog out. 

About four three times a week I attempt to cook dinner,but despite spending $100 a week at the grocery store, we never seem to have any actual food. While I cook, my daughter crawls around on the kitchen floor and plays in the liquor cabinet. Every once in awhile she complains just for the sake of complaining and because it's 4:00. 

When my husband finally gets home from work, I have to make the decision to either go workout or hide in my room and read. If I'm feeling really ambitious, I'll read People magazine on the elliptical machine. 

After feeding my daughter and myself, I get her bath ready and shower while my husband bathes her. While in the shower I have to make the decision to either shave my legs or wash my hair because I almost never have time for both. 

After my shower, I chase my daughter around in an attempt to put on her diaper before she pees on the carpet. I brush all 4 of her teeth and nurse her to sleep. While I breastfeed, I send emails with ridiculous typos and pin things on Pinterest I will never look at again. 

But despite the monotony and lack of intellectual stimulation, my days go by way too quickly. I go to bed with a full heart, looking  forward to repeating it all over again the next day. I'm even planning on having another one of these time-sucking, house-wrecking, tantrum-throwing creatures. So, to answer one of your earlier questions, yes; maybe I do have a history of mental illness, because I've never been happier. 

Of course, I didn't say any of this aloud. Instead, I mumbled something about how I used to be a teacher but now I stay at home with my daughter.

"Oh," said the doctor, "So, you're a homemaker."

*sigh*