Why Being a Stay-At-Home Mom Kind of Sucks

“Stay-At-Home Mom”. That title sure has a stigma to it, right? I’ve grown to hate when people ask me what I do for a living.

In a social setting: “Oh, your husband is a real estate broker? How wonderful! And what do you do?”

“I’m a stay-at-home mother to our two young boys.”

“Oh. Well, isn’t that nice?” *Awkward chuckle as she scuttles off, to avoid catching the plague.

I’m used to it. It’s been almost six years since I had a life of my own. After a difficult pregnancy that required a lot of rest and time off from work, we had our baby boy and I was the one staying home with him. Then came our second son, a couple of years later.

My husband has been a successful real estate broker for 15 years. He’s wonderful, charming, knows his business, and people love him. His company affords us a wonderful home, plenty of nice things, and the luxury of me being able to stay home with our boys, 24–7. Yippee.

I’m grateful. Kind of like how so many people are grateful for living in America these days. Freedom. Yay. I used to have a life and an identity besides “Mommy”.

“MOMMY!” WHERE IS MY BLANKEY?”

“MOMMY! BRYSON HIT ME!”

“MOMMY! WHY DON’T THEY MAKE OREO-FLAVORED TOOTHPASTE?”

Heysoos Christo. Why don’t they make “shut the fuck up-flavored” kids? Oops, I need to remember to use my inside voice. I need more coffee. Is it too early to switch to wine? 10:27 am. Close enough.

It’s exhausting at home. Leaving home with two kids under the age of six isn’t that much better. Ever seen that movie Con-Air? Picture that but in a Range Rover instead of an airplane.

If I have to eat at McDonald’s one more damn time so these two can get the lastest Paw-Patrol plastic toy in their Happy Meal, I might just drop them off at the pound. And I’m supposed to be fit and beautiful for my husband to show off at his events. All the events. There are SO MANY events.

It’s not like it’s fair, either. The whole “Dad-Bod” thing being en vogue. He gets to have greying hair and it makes him look “distinguished”. If I get greying hair, then I look like a hag. I’m careful not to stand too close to the curb on trash day.

So I work hard to keep to a certain standard. I definitely stay active with Cross-Fit and Krav Maga at our local gym. If a mugger tries to steal my purse, fucking BRING IT. Plus it’s a much-needed hour to myself away from Lucifer and Beelzebub. I love them, but holy hell, they’re a handful.

I have the fitness thing pretty much figured out at this stage. Now in my early 30’s, I can’t afford to gain 2–3lbs of alcohol weight every year. In 10 years, he’ll leave me for the 2002 version of me. Not on my watch, Pal.

I work out hard almost every day of the week to make my nightly wine consumption a push. Thank the Lord there’s wine. It’s the greatest of His miracles in the Bible, if you ask me. If it wasn’t for Jesus-Juice, I’d probably have to go into witness relocation. Xanex may be the next step.

Between getting the minions to and from kindergarten and pre-school, the gym, errands, breakfast, lunch, and dinners, I’m usually at my wit’s end. My delightful husband once referred to me as a “Sleep-at-Home Mom” during an argument. Once.

It’s amazing what they can do with porcelain veneers these days. He apologized for that incident, and eventually dropped the assault charges. I think the tipping point was calling me while I was gun-shopping in Cabela’s. Smart man.

Everybody loves him. His real estate agents. His office help. Even my Dad adores him:

“I was a machine gunner on a chopper back in ‘Nam, and even I’d fuck him.”

“Jesus, Dad. Why don’t you just move in? Or I’ll house-sit for you, we can switch.”

Ok, so he’s probably kidding. But I bet Pops would take him to dinner and later on cuddle together while watching Apocalypse Now. Which is more than I can offer, at this point. We’ve grown a bit apart for a while now.

I’m sure he’s popping at least a couple of those early 20s bimbo real estate agents at his office on the side. Meanwhile, I get the Schwan’s delivery guy smiling at me awkwardly like Shrek once a week. At least the Amazon driver has all his teeth. Maybe I’ll get some implants.

At least I have a couple of toys to keep me happy. I hide them in my panty drawer. The kids still take a nap at least once a day. Then they wake up and yell to me, “WE’RE AWAKE! WE’RE UP PLAYING WITH BUZZ AND WOODY!”

“So am I, Kids. So am I.”, I whisper, glancing at my bedroom door to make sure it’s locked.

It’s not all bad. I just need to vent once in a while. And I do have help. From my husband? HAHAHA! No. That’s laughable. He makes all the money, and I spend it. That’s our arrangement. The help I’m referring to is our nanny, Megan.

Megan comes over most afternoons and a few evenings each week. She’s a college student by day and simply stunning. When she tells me frequently how I’m a total MILF, I halfway consider running away to Vermont to start a new life together with her. I remember those sorority memories fondly.

I saw her earlier this afternoon. She ran the boys over to their swim lessons for me, and I stopped by toward the end to pick them up. I saw her in her bikini while swimming with them, and this did nothing to dissuade me from planning our escape and eventual future together.

Note to self: Stop at Trader Joe’s on the way home from the Y for Megan’s favorite wine. Invite her over for a paint and chug evening the next time Hubby is out of town for a real estate convention. Casually discuss LGBTQ rights, with a slight emphasis on the “B”. You know, see how it goes.

Ok, ok. I’m just kidding. Mostly. I know it could be worse. Being “Mommy” above all else in a nice, upper-middle-class home shouldn’t be considered a hard life. It’s not like I’m breaking rocks in the hot sun on Alcatraz. Maybe I should feel guilty about complaining sometimes.

But I don’t. It would be nice to have my own thing. Before I met my husband, I enjoyed singing. A LOT. I could bring the house down in any karaoke place on any given night. I didn’t even have to sing the young drunk-girl anthem, Black Velvet to get cheers and rounds bought for me. I was GOOD.

I aspired to record an album. I would have loved to tour the country or even the world. But then I met my husband and everything changed. We took fancy vacations. I ended up working as a transaction coordinator at his office. Things were fun and exciting, and the money certainly didn’t hurt anything.

But things change. We grew up and grew comfortable. We bought a nice, big house, fancy vehicles, fun toys, and anything else we felt we needed. We got pets. Then kids. Pretty similar, actually. And somehow, his identity and personality grew, while mine shrunk.

It’s ok. I still sing. Mainly fueled by wine, while cooking borderline gourmet meals for the family. You know, the ones that the boys could find a single piece of onion in and automatically demand mac and cheese because of my obvious plot against them.

The ones I make where Hubby takes a bite and says, “Mmmmm. It’s good. A little spicy, but good.” Then picks at it for 10 minutes and finally says, “I had a late lunch with a couple of my agents. But save me some, I’ll take it to the office tomorrow.” I guarantee there are at least four or five of those dinners sitting in the back of his office fridge.

So my kitchen lounge act is about as far as I’ll get with this singing career. The boys are often underwhelmed, but “The Show Must Go On”. At least my husband acts as if he enjoys it if I’m singing something he likes. He’s kind of a Spice Girls and Britney fan, which is equal parts hilarious and disturbing for a 42-year-old man. Toxic, indeed.

He does make me laugh. He tries to be thoughtful and kind, for a workaholic. For all the negatives I’ve mentioned, I realize he’s a great dad, a pretty hot piece of ass, and most of the time, my best bud when he’s not irritating me too badly.

And these two hellions who are playing “great white shark” in the bathtub as we speak are my little men. They bring me so much joy, so much of the time. When I think about…

“WHAT THE HELL, DID YOU TWO KEEP ANY WATER IN THE TUB?”

*Googles how many years a fed-up mother likely gets in an “accidental” bathtub drowning. Shit, not enough water left in the tub. All right, you two have been pardoned. You just gotta laugh to avoid a mental breakdown.

Whether this ends up being a starter marriage or one we work hard on together, we’ll always have our boys and a lot of memories. Worst case scenario, I’ll get him into pot, we’ll hide it from the kids, and laugh at all this bullshit together.