A Day in the Life of a Stay-at-Home Mom- with Dogs

I never really had the motherly instinct I have heard other women say completed them and I decided long ago that bearing children was not for me. People told me for decades, 'someday you'll change your mind!' I would answer 'no, I won't. I'm forty now'. They'd persist and I would be forced to tell them I cannot have children. Then they seem so sad for me like I am going to miss being a real woman by not having a family of my own.

But I have people to take my motherly instincts out on if they ever do rear their ugly head. Even though my kids are either a few years older than me and absolutely no relation or have four legs, wet noses, no thumbs and shed twice a year, the old saying goes; friends are the family you chose. I made my choice and my family wears on me almost as much as any other stay-at-home-mom.

'Pater' is a great provider and the adoring father of my lovely and intelligent daughter, 'Blackie'. She's an old pure breed Black Labrador; just beautiful and a coat like pure satin, even the tuft on her chest forms a perfect heart.

'Man/Child' is my older unrelated son who still needs me to cook and do his laundry despite that fact he is all grown up with a daughter of his own, 'Yellow'; a smaller love bug of a Lab-thing that calls me 'Aunt Mommy'. What? We're in the south.

As with most mothers, if I, 'Mater', as Blackie will refer to me as, am going to get any quiet time to myself to get a few things done, oh, like writing an article, I have to get up at four in the morning. I tip-toe quietly from Pater's bed and forego an early flush that will wake bipeds and canines alike. My small coffee pot is on a timer for those precious few seconds more and I sneak up to my writing studio to take advantage of my best creative time in the early morning hours. But I can only get an hour and a half of writing time in, because at a quarter-to-six I know Blackie is sitting at the bottom of the well-blocked stairs wagging her tail and waiting.

"Mater. May I have my breakfast please?" But no matter what a sucker Pater is, I don't feed Blackie till six-thirty and have to feel her glistening hungry puppy eyes boring a hole into my back. Well, she'll have to wait. I'm busy making lunch for Pater.

Because Pater is one-quarter Foodie on his mother's side, I can't just toss a package of cheese and crackers in there with a yogurt and a spoon. I hand-craft a wrap or sandwich with fresh produce and decent deli meat or maybe some of the left-over fried catfish with my homemade tartar sauce, not to forget the sliced tart apples with peanut butter and honey, something to snack, a banana and a breakfast bar. To clarify; the breakfast bar isn't his breakfast. Every weekday morning I make a blender full of fresh fruit smoothies; enough for me, Pater and for Man/Child, because I know what crud he'll ingest if I don't put something healthy on the table.

After the smoothies are made and Pater's lunch is packed; I clean up my mess in the kitchen wondering why those bruises in my back from Blackie's stare didn't remind me I still have to feed the dogs. And I don't just dump dry dog biscuit in a bowl and walk away either. One cup of dry food, a heaping spoon of wet food, dash of low-sodium organic chicken broth, squirt of some liquid medication, one pill and I have to wait and watch her eat in case she gets a kibble caught in her throat and has to jog down the stairs to jar it loose before she chokes and hurls on the carpet.

Then, of course, for cleaning her plate, she wants a c.o.o.k.i.e., which I do not give her in the morning. Pater gets to be the hero when he wakes up and that's fine. I want to get back to my writing. But, no. Blackie needs her post-breakfast potty-break and I stand in the cold rain that has blessed Atlanta lately and wait for her to, you know, go. I can't stand inside because she's old and needs reminded why she came outside. And she's deaf so when I see her lying down in the middle of the yard in the rain, I have to go get her. So I'm wet, she's wet, the floor's wet and she's heading for the stairs thinking it's time for a c.o.o.k.i.e.

I can't yell because Pater is sleeping and she can't hear me anyway. She's not so good on the stairs and I have to make sure her big wet Labrador butt gets up the steps without another heart-wrenching topple from the top like last week that didn't harm her a bit. About those motherly instincts I didn't think I have... Yeah. I was wrong.

Blackie is mellow and I can write; until Man/Child gets up with Yellow, puts down the bowl of food I made for her an hour before and goes back upstairs for his morning shower; without letting Yellow outside. Now some kids, whether they are a 43 year chemical engineer or not, just don't listen and I got tired of that battle long before. I get up from my very interrupted writing, again when Yellow bursts into my studio and bounces, bucks, snorts and spins until I walk down two flights of stairs with a little blond ruckus of fur at my feet;

"Aunt Mommy! Aunt Mommy! Aunt Mommy! I gotta go hurry-up!" We don't yell 'Go potty' in our backyard; we say 'Hurry-up'. It sounds so much better.

Now with Yellow, I have to hold her paw. She won't go in the morning unless I am standing out there, in the cold rain, waiting for her to hurry-up. I ask her after a decent amount of time rustling beyond the bushes;

"Yellow! Are you done yet? You done?" She's not and scampers back out to the yard, making sure I see her get done. Back inside and wet, she starts to bolt for the stairs to get her c.o.o.k.i.e. But once she sees the towel in my hand she runs back over so I can rub dry her oh-so-itchy-wet-nose. Then she bolts up the stairs.

I pass the clock and see it's not even seven-thirty. An hour of chores and all I got out of it was a smoothie whose calorie count I have burned off twenty minutes ago. I pour myself a bit more coffee and Man/Child asks me if I have time to do his laundry today, and his bedding, and;

"My bathroom is looking pretty bad, too," I say I will do it and I consider cracking a beer, but over his head because I see my mistake of making a clean spot on the kitchen counter. Now, smoothie shrapnel, bread crumbs, coffee circles, sugar piles and those fibrous gooey strings from bananas decorate my once clean counters like bad graffiti on a freshly painted wall. And in my frustration I fall back to my writing studio and wait for the men to clear out of the house.

Man/Child exits after his demands and I know Pater is gone when Blackie enters my studio and wants me to help her big wet Labrador butt up on the bed. She lies directly in the middle; right where it makes it hard for Yellow, being kind of short, to jump up on the bed with her. Blackie plans it like that. Sibling rivalry. What can you do?

It's after eight-o-clock and I finally have two sleeping dogs... I mean, kids, and I want to sit down to write for two more hours but I recall the five loads of clothes to wash today. And clean a bathroom. UGH! And no one started the dishwasher last night like I asked. About that beer?

I get right to work but, of course, I can't do many chores without Yellow at my feet.

"Aunt Mommy? What are you doing? Are you doing laundry? Why are you doing laundry? Can I have a cookie?" She really works the blond-thing, thinks she's cute. So I start a load of Man/Childs' quicker drying stuff and I give her a c.o.o.k.i.e. because she's a cute blond. Then I get to Man/Childs' bathroom wonder where the one-eyed mountain yak is that must have resided in there since my last cleaning.

There's no reason to get the gloves and cleaners out if I'm only going to clean one bathroom so I do clean all three bathrooms, keeping one ear open for the washer's buzzer. After I start the second load of clothes I am about to finish the bathrooms, but son-of-a... I forgot to start the dishwasher. That takes a split second but I realize now that I forgot to eat something substantial. I need something, now, that will take dishes so I shut off the dishwasher and bust out a plate of the left-overs Man/Child demands and will rarely touch unless I sneak it into a quesadilla or casserole.

No time to truly enjoy my own very good cooking, I inhale lunch, start the dishwasher and hurry back to the fumes with my bright blue gloves. Scrub, scrub, scrub and scrub some more. Hugging toilets I do not damage to see them shine, cleaning hair from places that I do not leave hair in, sweep, mop, wash the rugs, clean the shower curtains and mirrors. Oh! Shiny! I am SO taking the first shower tonight.

Its eleven-o-clock, I'm beaded with perspiration and the dogs...I mean, kids, need some attention. First, locate them. Yellow is right behind me and has been the whole time. Directly behind me: the...whole...time. Blackie is stuck in Man/Child's room because she doesn't know how to paw the door open. Yellow is full of energy, Blackie is in a sleepy stumble as I walk the two flights of stairs backwards with one hand raised to spot Blackie's descent. But she thinks I might have a c.o.o.k.i.e. and sniffs my fingers every step when she should be watching where she is going. Whew. It's not the work, it's the worry!

I stand outside under the obnoxiously bright outdoor umbrella in the heavy drizzling 44 degree weather with the tail-end of a tiny stale cigar waiting for Yellow to whiz and Blackie to not lie down on the river of soaked leaves that is our backyard.

"Hurry-up!" I holler with authority. But I'm gaining a smile from their antics, Yellow charging something that never was and probably never will be in our yard and Blackie lumbering through the bushes; leaves and twigs atop her rain-drenched hide and a satisfied look on her graying muzzle.

Wet dogs are stinky dogs and can also mud drench a bedspread down to the expensive 'Sleep Number' mattress padding in forty-five seconds flat so I let one dog in at a time to keep control of my furry and beloved heathens. Blackie is the first inside because she's alpha-dog and my little baby puppy princess.

"Aunt Mommy! It's a hurricane! Mayday! S.O.S! Dog the lifeboats!" Yellow pouts petrified at the sliding glass door in the light mist, the epitome of utter misery while I dry Blackie's oh-so-itchy-wet nose. Poor Yellow.

No worries, folks! Yellow is inside within a minute and rubbing her oh-so-itchy-wet nose into the towel, rolling, snorting and shaking what her real mama gave her all over my dresser drawers. As usual, Blackie isn't listening, or rather cannot listen to me calling her from an unsupervised ascent of the stairs.

I know my 'kids'. If I let Yellow go now, she'll right-check Blackie into the wall midway up the stairs and dogs shall tumble in an ugly, ugly way. So I put trust that the only daughter I shall ever claim as my own will make it up the steps without harming herself and I finish drying a very excited Yellow, enjoying the heck out of a good towel rubbing right now. Yellow is so funny.

When I hear Blackie's untrimmed nails on the linoleum I release Yellow. And before the towel can hit the floor she is across the room and waiting, most bouncingly, at the top of the stairs;

"Aunt Mommy! Aunt Mommy! Cookie!!" And Blackie looming behind Yellow;

"Yes, Mater. May we please have a cookie?"

The c.o.o.k.i.e. jar is on top of the fridge and I press my way through the crowd of two dogs demanding yet obstructing;

"Cookie! Aunt Mommy! Cookie!"

"Mater? Please and thank you."

It's their version of good dog/bad dog and I know it. But how could I turn down those faces? One cookie each, but I must watch out Yellow doesn't snip my finger and I have to just about place on Blackie's tongue. I got that backwards only once! They snack right in front of me, crunching bits of c.o.o.k.i.e. on the floor but I'm not worried about that mess. Unlike Man/Child, I don't have to ask them to clean it up. They will clean that spot and many spots near-by where some of that c.o.o.k.i.e. or some c.o.o.k.i.e. may have landed in another time.

At least that keeps them busy and awake. But their perfect muddy footprints now make a lovely design my kitchen floor. And yes. I mopped yesterday. Yesterday! That's it. I'm having a beer.

"Beeeep!" There goes the buzzer for the laundry. It's time to start the third load of Man/Child's clothes I have just decided I am not charging nearly enough for and followed by Yellow;

"Aunt Mommy. What are you doing? Are you doing laundry? Why are you doing laundry? Can I have a cookie?" She's relentless.

Let's see; bathrooms are clean, laundry is going, dishwasher too. Blackie is positioning herself to grace me with her nap and Yellow's second wind is losing strength. Maybe if I just sit down for a minute, they will both fall asleep for a little while. I get me that gosh-darn beer I have been thinking about since way too early, sit down on the couch and turn on their lullaby TV channel, Cartoon Network. It's a cheap shot but it works when I have to sweep and mop the kitchen, because despite what they tell Pater and Man/Child, they are really no help when it comes to household chores.

I sit with Blackie beside me snoring loudly and taking up more than half the couch. Yellow moves to her four-by-five, down-filled, dog bed that consumes a third of the usable floor space in the living room. After a spin and a good scratching to fluff up the bed, Yellow finally, thankfully goes to sleep. I have less than twenty minutes before the laundry needs attending again. Ah. Beer.

"Ding-dong!" Of course it's the doorbell. I expect no less. The dogs are awake and at the front door to see who has come to visit. It's all very exciting and Yellow loves company. Blackie piercingly announces herself as the 'Watch Dog' to package delivery guy as she has since the day my Gray One was sent to live on the big farm in the sky last year. So I step outside to sign for yet another package for Pater and I place it on the kitchen table.

"Aunt Mommy! What'd I get? What'd I get? Is it a cookie?"

"Mater, what did Pater receive today?"

"You didn't get a thing, Yellow...His spy camera's here, Blackie." I call Pater at work in case it matters to his mountain-biking later tonight but it doesn't and he sounds a little pissed that I bothered him for such a trivial thing. I head back to the living room and the cartoons and my beer. I heave Blackie's butt back up on the couch, but now Yellow is jealous and there won't be any peace until I scoot over and give the needy little blond a place on the cushions. But maybe, just maybe, if I am very still, they might...Yes! Sleep!

After ten whole minutes of relaxing, I slide off the couch, lifting Yellow's head from my lap so gently as not to wake her. I don't know why I'm worried. She has two speeds, wide open and off. And at the moment, she is off. Turning the TV volume up just a bit more, I clean the nasty counters that were left for me as a gift from Man/Child and sweep the kitchen floor and the hallway without doggie disturbance. Then:

"Beeeep!" I tip-toe downstairs to the drudgery of dirty clothes I still stand knee-deep in. Dry clothes laid flat, wet clothes in dryer, dirty clothes in washer and then I hang and fold the clean, dry clothes that are the bane of my existence. As I turn to head out with one basket of clothes, I just about trip over Yellow, lying on the floor.

"Holy Jeepers!" I yell stumbling.

"Aunt Mommy?"

"I got nothing for you, Yellow!" I snap at her in fear, not anger.

"Aunt Mommy, I woked up and you was gone and it's raining and I'm scared." The little love bug blinks her big brown eyes at me. I let her follow me around while I get a portion of laundry put away and she watches me run a mop over the kitchen floor. She is the little puzzle solver and I can see her wondering what I am doing and why and how can she benefit from it in c.o.o.k.i.e.s.

It's almost one-freaking-o-clock and I could use my own nap but that's not happening. I toss three chicken breasts in the sink to thaw out for dinner and grab the evil and noisy vacuum cleaner. Blackie and Yellow are both scared of the evil and noisy vacuum cleaner but Blackie stands within three feet, horrified and entranced at the same time. Yellow is upstairs, as far away as she can get from the evil and noisy vacuum cleaner without actually figuring out how to open a doorknob with no thumbs.

There is a thin layer of what was once a stuffed animal on the living room floor and it takes time to get it all up without causing Blackie undue emotional stress. I shove the vacuum back in the closet, put the dishes away and before I can say 'Calgon, take me away,' my next door neighbor texts me;

"Hy wench! I gotz wodka, U wat drink wit me?" As a writer I cringe at the criminal grammatical offenses. As a friend I text back immediately;

"I most emphatically accept your invitation, kind sir. Thank you." I get the grapefruit juice out, snip a couple bend-y straws to fit in our glasses, promising the dogs, "Uncle Perry is coming over!" I sit down to wait. And wait and wait. As I am about to send my completed text message asking 'what in the pan-fried eggs is taking so long' he knocks upon my door. Blackie lumbers and Yellow bounces to greet him.

"Uncle Perry! Uncle Perry! Want to play with my baby? Throw it. I'll go get it!" Yellow grabs a stuffed animal carcass and shoves it at my dog-loving visitor.

"Good afternoon, Master Perry." Blackie escorts him to the kitchen table, "Please come in and make yourself at home. May I offer you a refreshment?"

Perry and I have a stiff drink and loose conversation as Blackie lies at our feet under the kitchen table with her head against a chair leg in a position that just cannot be comfortable and Yellow laps at her water leaving a spattering of slime in a two foot radius from their bowl all over my clean floor. I complain to Perry about the multitude of chores I was thankful he interrupted me from and he involves me in his day at nursing school. We discuss what we will be making our significant other for dinner and have a cigarette, cigar for me, on my freezing front porch before he has to get home to responsibilities there. A hug for me and a pat on the heads of the dogs who adore him, Uncle Perry leaves me to my chores.

Darn it. I'm out of steam but after the excitement of a visitor the dogs must go hurry-up again and rather than take them to the muddy homage to Woodstock in the back, I take them one at a time to the grassy front yard and let them wander and disappear into the shrubs and ivy for a long time. There are many chipmunks that call our front yard home and the dogs know it. Blackie will occasionally lay down in front of one particular chipmunk hole, insert her whole snout and just stay there; head-in-hole. That is a great joy to her and normally I don't stop her but it is raining pretty hard today.

It's another twenty minutes of chores to get the dogs back inside and dry and wipe the damp kitchen floor. I also remember the laundry still isn't done. Didn't I have a beer?

But actually the laundry is more done than it looks and the house is as spick and span and as a fresh coat of snow. Me, on the other hand? Shirt wet, hair frizzy, house-shoes muddy, I do not know what that is on my house pants, nor do I want to guess, and dog hair everywhere else. In this tidy house, I stand out like a poop on paper, probably smell like it, too. The dogs don't mind, but Pater really doesn't need to see me this way too often.

It's exactly three-thirty when I get in the shower that is not going to look hygienic when I am done with this needed cleansing. Maybe I should have stood in the rain that has just turned into a raging storm with a bar of soap and a washcloth. But that would upset Yellow who is now shivering in fright in front of the bathroom door.

"It's a typhoon, Mama!!" She calls me 'Mama' when she is scared, cold or really, really wants a c.o.o.k.i.e., "Batten down the food bowls! Secure the cookies! Hoist the bacon! Yellow and short dogs first!" She announces frantically on my heels as I head back downstairs. Even comforting Yellow will not comfort her now so I just go about my day and try to look nice for Pater when he gets home later.

I'm squeaky clean with extra hair gel to fight the humidity. I don a pair of earrings and the watch Pater gave me, my 'good' house pants and a tee-shirt without too many mysterious stains and my slippers `cause I get cold feet.

At four-o-clock I realize I have been up for twelve hours and I really should have napped. But I know better than to sit down and relax now. I will crash out. I prep the ingredients for dinner, spreading out on the counter and decide to get the dogs out one more time before the men-folk get home from whatever it is they do all day.

I grab a poor excuse for an umbrella and let the dogs barrel outside into the pouring rain. I was sure Yellow was scared and under my feet shivering for the last half hour, but as Yellow right-checks Blackie off the edge of the patio, she searches anxiously for a tennis ball. Blackie sees this, gets excited and charges her soccer ball.

Yeah. It's dumping, thundering, lightening, I just showered and the dogs want to play ball. Now. How can I turn down those faces?

I see Yellow darting around the yard, snout to the ground like a little fuzzy vacuum cleaner with a pink nose who doesn't give a gosh-darn about the raging storm. Suddenly her head snaps up, her ears fly in the air and she gallops back to me with a particular tennis ball. Not one of the eight nice clean tennis balls Uncle Perry tosses in the yard for her; the one with half the felt peeled off and cracked down the middle.

"Throw it, Aunt Mommy! I'll go get it! I'll go get it! Throw it! Throw it!" That is a ball and Yellow is a retriever.

"Shall we, Mater?" Blackie does her dance around the soccer ball; feet wide, shuffle left, pounce right, using her nose to very accurately roll it between the goal post that is my feet in more than a polite request.

"Two points, Blackie!" And I kick that soccer ball across the yard, "Game on!" Blackie hurtles after it, not as fast as she used to but her whole heart is in it; until she gets a whiff of a wandering chipmunk. She peels off before arriving at her soccer ball and trots with purpose into the shrubs, now on the hunt.

"Throw the &%$^ ball!!" Yellow is about to implode. I kiss my fingers good-bye in case I never see them again and reach my hand down to let Yellow place the tennis ball in my palm. And without a digit chomped I get the ball but before I can even take a breath she is across the yard staring and wondering why I haven't thrown the &$%^ ball yet. At least she's desensitizing herself from the storm and that is a good thing, so I fling that ball as hard as I can and she splashes towards it in a wake of wet leaves. Without breaking stride she scoops the tennis ball up in her mouth and hustles it back to me. What an outfielder!

Blackie is under the shrubs, in the mud, head-in-hole, still looking for that chipmunk, in the rain. She gets that from my side of the family. It's cute, but she needs some exercise.

"Blackie! Aren't we playing ball?" I motion to the yard with one hand and hold the tiny umbrella with the other. Blackie suddenly recalls that, yes, we were playing ball. She takes her snout out of the chipmunk hole she is terrorizing in an almost omnipotent way and starts looking for her soccer ball. Blackie is eighty-six in dog years so once in a while she misplaces her things or her failing eyesight can't see the large white round object on the blanket of wet leaves. But today, she got fickle, because she brings me back a tennis ball.

On a nice day, this would be a good thing; I could sit down. But now it's storming hard and my tiny umbrella sucks. My back is soaked from bending over to get the tennis ball from Yellow's mouth; my 'good' house pants are drenched to the waist and splattered with mud. The hair I had so patiently gelled and left down to dry is driving me nuts by sticking to my face each time I reach for a ball.

I entertain the idea of going inside where it's warm and dry, but heck, I'm wet, they're wet and getting the first playtime they have had in a couple days. I close the umbrella that was doing me no good anyway, cinch back my hair and stand in the harsh elements. Even Blackie and Yellow seem to know I'm in the game now and their excitement rises by twenty percent.

Oh the doggie delights! We are playing in the rain now! I take enjoyment in their complete lack of concern for the inclement weather; which in turn makes me think that it might not be as cold and wet and miserable as I think and I wonder where my rain gear might be so I can stay outside longer.

And so goes ten minutes of wet sprinting Labradors and me getting rain-soaked down to my skivvies. Blackie even brings her soccer ball back and we do some one-on-one in the middle of the ankle-deep yard. She's a good soccer player. You can't get one by her. Beckham might. Maybe.

My fingers are actually beginning to prune and Yellow pants like a locomotive. Blackie lets me know she is done playing by just not retrieving the ball or herself.

"Let's go inside, kids!" I snap my fingers and move towards the back door. Yellow grabs her ball and dashes after me. Blackie is concerned I may leave her outside, "You coming?"

"Yes, Mater!" And she trots quickly towards me with a lovely cascade of water slipping off her back.

One feud between Yellow and I has been going on for years; Yellow wants to take that nasty ball in the house. I tell her to drop it. She does. As I open the door, she grabs the ball back up and darts inside. I tell her she's a bad dog and to drop it. She does, but inside, leaving rounded mud streaks on the carpet. I throw the ball outside but this isn't over yet. Yellow must have a ball or toy after a game of fetch and the inside-balls and toys are all upstairs, across my clean kitchen floor.

I dry both the dogs at once, alternating the towel, black nose to yellow nose and back again. Towel time is very exciting and no matter how often I have to use it, they have an absolute blast and can barely contain themselves. I spout many stern words and alternate with kind phrases to keep the dogs under control and near me till I can get them dry or at least drier. And finally, I give the release words;

"Go ahead." Quicker than the flash of lightening occurring outside, they are both up the stairs, bouncing in the kitchen, tracking up my clean floor, expecting their c.o.o.k.i.e. But they are not getting one this time. Yeah, right! Who am I kidding?! I can't resist those faces, "Okay, half a cookie, but don't tell Pater and Man/Child."

"Of course not, Mater."

"Cookie! Cookie!" I give them each a half a cookie and they eat it above my not-so-clean-anymore floor, leaving crumbs and drool.

I look at the new dishevelment around me. Yellow has ripped the fluff from the carcass of a stuffed animal scattering white puffy clouds and bright red fuzz across my virginally clean carpet. Blackie found a rawhide bone somewhere, pulled it out, and then left it on the floor to hop up on the couch and lie length-wise in the middle, mussing and dampening the slip-cover I probably should have washed today as well.

I did leave the glasses from Perry's afternoon visit on the table and the dirty ashtray I brought in from outside to soak in the sink. The counter-top near the stove is sporting the dinner fixings, ready to go, which is why the ashtray is still on the table far away.

"Ring, ring." Man/Child is calling me from his car.

"Hey, I am going out of town. Can you watch Yellow?"

"Sure. When are you leaving? When will you be back?"

"Oh, I'm on the road now. I'll be gone three days, maybe four."

I stand silently and look at the three thawed chicken breasts in the sink; one for Pater, one for Man/Child and one for me. But Man/Child has yet again sprung a dog-sit on me with no warning.

"I'll watch her," I say with a chill in my voice I'm sure he can feel. And I'm sure he knows I am thinking, 'I DO know where you sleep.' I hang up on Man/Child before I choke him through the phone and start dinner. Dinner for two instead of three, like I thought and now I have to cook that third piece of chicken and have more leftovers in the fridge that I have to eat myself or hide in a quesadilla or casserole.

Okay so, I'm a little peeved. Not much, but not because I don't deserve to be peeved about something we have talked about, but because I have been worn down, I am weathered, I am a vast empty mile-deep canyon of what once was a fun vibrant woman with an opinion and a backbone. I remember that woman. She went places. She did things. She saw people. What happened to that hip chick with the great wardrobe, huge nail polish collection and a bunch of concert ticket stubs taped to the full length mirror in fond remembrance? She just disappeared. Maybe I should put out flyers. Someone might call if they see her. Until then;

Yellow wants her dinner even though it's an hour early and Blackie is and shouldn't be completely crashed out and snoring. Her sleeping now isn't conducive to me and Pater sleeping tonight.

"You aren't sleeping are you, Blackie?" A paint-peeling snore is her answer so I go over to poke her a couple times to keep her awake. Someday she may bite me for that, but if I don't have to get up at three in the morning to let her outside to hurry-up and get her from the middle of the yard when she forgets why she went out; I'm happy, missing a finger or not.

I begin to gather the tools to re-clean and tidy the house before Pater gets home, but in he walks an hour early, with an armful of his daily crud, his briefcase of sorts, water bottle and mail and tosses it across the kitchen table. His lunch box is discarded on what little space there is on the counter; its empty plastic containers sitting on top of the empty dishwasher. But he is busy with a sales call and doesn't notice the messy kitchen or me. He hurries downstairs; finishes his call and back to the kitchen so Blackie and Yellow can greet him;

"Uncle Pater! Uncle Pater! Cookie!"

"Good evening, Pater. Kiss, kiss. You had a good day at work, I do hope."

Pater squats and gets wet dog hair all over his clothes that I will apparently be washing tomorrow and receives the happily wagging tails and little pink tongues to welcome him home.

"Hi, honey." I call over the ruckus of hopping dogs. But I take second fiddle when it comes to the 'children'.

"You two are all wet! Did Mama leave you outside? In the rain?" Pater addresses the dogs and there is a tone in his voice I'm not sure I care for, but I tell myself he's joking and laugh about it.

"They wouldn't take no for an answer. Blackie was a riot," I begin to tell him how adorable the only daughter he will ever claim as his own was today playing soccer in the rain and how I got Yellow outside in a storm, but being so close to the floor, Pater can see the trail map of muddy dog prints and the splatters of drool water from the dog bowl. He sees the puffs of stuffed animal innards in the living room and the mess on the kitchen counters from my efforts of making his dinner for two instead of three. He spies the cocktail glasses on the table and then he sees me, still wet from playing with the dogs, hair matted and pulled back in an uneven ponytail, and wearing my mud-speckled, stuck-to-my-flesh 'good' house clothes. He sneers at his surroundings and I think, 'you'd better not!'

"What did you do all day?" Maybe Pater saw me eyeing the twenty pound forged iron skillet on the stove. Maybe he could hear the ancient forgotten foreign dialect cursing him and cussing at him inside my mind. Maybe my silence said this stay-at-home-mom had a rough day because I clearly heard his mind say, 'oops'. He did a full retreat and turned to the dogs still bouncing and spinning around him, "You two have been wearing you mother out today, haven't you?"

"Pater." Blackie rolls her eyes, "You know how Yellow can be."

"Uncle Pater! Uncle Pater! Uncle Pater! Uncle Pater!!" Yellow shoves between Blackie and Pater.

"What do you want, Yellow?" Pater finally gives her the direct attention she will not be denied.

"Cookie! Cookie!" She runs to the c.o.o.k.i.e. jar and glances up at it, "Cookie!!"

"Pater. May we have an appetizer?"

"No." Pater stands and points to the living room, "You two get out and wait for dinner. Out."

Blackie and Yellow sit just barely out of the kitchen following the law that their feet aren't allowed on the linoleum and patiently wait for their dinner. I believe Pater saw the rest of the immensely clean house because he comes back up in his warm house clothes, opens a really good bottle of red wine, places a glass in front of me and proceeds to feed the dogs...I mean, kids and prepares my timer coffee pot for four-o-clock in the morning.

And that moment a joy flowed through my body; the joy of having a steady home life, being with people who need, know and love me, who make me smile, play and feel loved daily and the comforting, innate knowledge of my womanly completion.

You see, I don't really mind the housework, cooking and being expected to watch the kids. I love Pater deeply and I cherish Blackie and Yellow like my own off-spring, and I even love Man/Child. I have risked my own safety and sacrificed for them all again and again. I shall continue to give my time, concern, attention, undying love and steadfast loyalty; because this is my family and this was a day in the life of a stay-at-home-Mom.