Life as a Stay At Home Slave of Love

I'm not quite sure how I feel about the title "Stay At Home Mom." In my mind it does not fully capture the duties of a woman who dedicates her life to taking care of her family. It is true that I am a mother, and it is also true that I spend a little more than half of my time at home. But that title rubs me the same way a steel-wool sponge rubs a teflon pan - scratches away at my non-stick surface.

The phrase "Stay At Home Mom" sounds like you're saying "I stay at home, doing homey things, and, oh yeah, p.s., I'm a mom too. But don't worry cause that's more of an after-thought." Yeah Right! More like once you become a parent that is every thought you have. Even when you leave the baby at home so you can go out with friends for some "me time" you still feel a little fish-line and a hook caught right behind your belly-button that is always tugging you back to the offspring. You ignore this persistent navel inconvenience to the best of your ability, but no matter what, it is always there, gently reeling you in. There is no escape from feelings of motherhood. The umbilical chord may be cut, but that baby left a little piece of radar lodged somewhere that goes haywire every forty-five seconds. It's like being on baby-arrest.

Friend A says, "I loved that part in the movie when Potato Head is a tortilla." You laugh and say "Me too!" but then you accidentally think, "I hope my child eats those carrots I left for her." After reprimanding yourself for not focusing on your "non-mother" outing you find your mind drifting towards dirty diapers after a brief period of thirty-seconds.

Why? Why does this always happen? It's horrible, I beat myself up every time!

It happens because first and foremost, I am a mom. M.O.M. Stands for "Voluntary Slave of a Four-Month-Old." (I couldn't think of a clever acronym before my master woke up from her nap.)

It is sad, but true, her every wish is my command. She's hungry; out come the pureed carrots, she's wet; off comes the stinky diaper, she's tired; I come running to rock and sing, she wants to play; I am ready to be slobbered on, have my hair pulled, and talk like a chipmunk on steroids for an hour. Sometimes I feel like the genie from Aladdin; imprisoned in the role of pleasing. Except two problems, I don't have magical powers, and I don't get those cool gold bracelets for my service.

I am a constantly moving, always talking, always holding, always loving machine that feels like a murderer whenever I place my crying baby down for a nap. I am not a "Stay At Home Mom", I am a force of love that is ready to combat every infection, dry every tear, squeeze out every giggle, comfort every tummy-ache, drive to every appointment, change every diaper, and play peek-a-boo until my hands go numb. I am a mom that gave up the next forty years of freedom, to sit at a restaurant with a hamburger in front of me and unintentionally ponder the effects of rice cereal and green beans on a gentle digestive system.

I am an organism of eternal love revolving around a skinny baby with blue eyes, undecided hair, little toes and a smile that weakens all well-intentioned defenses.

So next time someone calls me a "Stay At Home Mom" I am going to say, "Actually, I prefer the title Enthusiastically Devoted Lover of Baby Josephine. . . the staying home part is just where we like to hang out."