I’m a fraud.  Unintentionally.  Fraud mom, that’s me. 

Weekly, some wonderful, accomplished, phenomenal woman turns and utters: “I don’t know how you do it.”  The assumption is my ducks are in a row, i’s dotted and t’s crossed, crap together.  I’ve hybridized career chick, stay-at-home mom, homeschool parent, community volunteer, cheerful wife, and fulfilled woman.  And uncovered an alchemy allowing all these elements to equal a well-balanced life.  Uh, no.

Let’s pull back the curtain and glimpse the ordinary woman sitting there.  At this very moment, she’s perched on the arm of a stuffed chair.  On the arm, because the dog is engaged in joyful licking in the chair.  She should reprimand this far-better-suited-for-a-private-corner behavior.  Instead, she turns her back and types on.

She types furiously while her children watch Arthur on YouTube.  Francine just called Muffy a spoiled brat.  She should engage the monkeys in conversation about this rude and hurtful verbiage.  Yet she types on.

Her children ate enormous bowls of green beans with chopsticks for dinner.  And a fruit torte from Bread & Chocolate.  The microwave beeps its reminder the peas were ready 5 minutes ago.  And she types on.

All members of the household must be in the Subaru, belts buckled, in approximately 30 seconds for her daughter to actually make it to gymnastics on time.  Still, she types a bit more.

There are phone calls to return.  E-mails to answer.  Two unpaid parking tickets in her purse.  And she types. 

Utterly Random Recent Occasions for Gratitude:

  • Squeals of delight as our 6-year-old aims the hose in my direction while washing the Subaru.
  • Birthdays.
  • Adoptions.
  • Busy feet, not yet reaching the floor, swinging and bouncing with glee. 
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