“I don't want to keep you. I know you've got a lot to do today,” said my friend phoning from Sarasota. I wanted to scream, “DON'T HANG UP! Keep talking! Nothing is more important than this conversation right now.”
Well, to tell you the truth, I think I left the lid up on the washer and the suspense was kinda killing me, but wait — what is so earth-shattering important in my gloriously domestic day that I can't take time to talk to a dear friend? The dust isn't going anywhere and the dirty Fruit of the Looms will keep piling up until I'm good and ready for them.
Unfortunately, I wasted years of potential domestic bliss worrying about being productive. My husband came home every two weeks with a paycheck that proved he'd been productive every day. I stood there with snot shimmering on my shirt, a whiny kid on my hip and another running through the house naked except for the Desitin smeared over every inch of her body.
Blame it on the feminist movement of the '60s and '70s. Blame it on my college degree. Whatever the reasons, I felt that as a stay-at-home mother, I had to prove myself. I needed to produce tangible evidence of my productivity during “all that free time” at home. I was stupid.
A productive mother is one who, at the end of the day, typically knows her children's names by the third try. She might even remember her own name and address.
By the end of the day, the children of a productive mother will have eaten something; even if it was defrosted ten minutes before mealtime. They most likely will have used a toothbrush, on their teeth, at least once. They're clean enough that even the dog will lick them. Their bathrooms are cleaner than those found at a rest area.
Every member of the household has enough underwear or diapers for one more day. Then again, even the most productive mother occasionally turns off her mind-reading capabilities and is informed by a resident teenager at 6 a.m. that his underwear drawer is empty. This is why baby powder was invented.
When our kids were still babies, my friend Beth called and shared with complete ease, “Sarah was sick yesterday and the only thing that made her happy was to be held and rocked. So that's what we did all day.” I remember wishing I could sit and rock my baby boy without worrying about what wasn't getting done.
Yesterday, I brought my teenage boy home from the hospital following surgery. I pumped him full of pain medicine and got him settled on the couch. I pulled over the rocking chair, sat down and watched him sleep for hours.
It was a very productive day.
Karen Rinehart is a magazine humor columnist, public speaker and the creator of The Bus Stop Mommies, a newspaper. She is also author of Invisible Underwear, Bus Stop Mommies and Other Things True To Life. You can read more of her work at karenrinehart.net. Karen lives in Concord, North Carolina with her two kids, one husband and goofball dog, where they attend St. James Catholic Church. (Well, they leave the dog at home.) She enjoys hearing from readers across the States and as far away as Australia, Japan and England.
