What If I'm Crazy?

I spend a lot of my time with my children.  I'm not sure that I should, because sometimes it doesn't seem like it's good for me or for them. Other times, well, it's not so bad. Sometimes it's even fun, or it looks like it was fun, when I'm reviewing the pictures I took on my phone at the end of the day. On the good days, the children hamming for the camera look creative, mischievous and just the right shade of imperfect -- the way I want them to look (I worry if they look too clean; it's like they're not really my children or something.) But despite the good stuff, and often there is a lot of good stuff, there are are some days when I can't believe I'm home with two children on what seems to be a permanent assignment. My younger, I'm-going-to-save-the-world 25 year-old self would be choking on her watertight idealism if she could see me now.

This post should probably be called "How Can I Tell If I'm Crazy?"

Not everyone has the temperament and stamina to be a stay-at-home parent. When you make a Venn diagram that puts together the people who are actually built, from the inside out, to stay at home with their kids with the people that actually stay home with their kids, you end up with a very skinny little slice of overlap. I'm not sure I know of anyone who lives in that overlap, at least not for very long. I'm pretty sure I lived there once for a day when my son was one and my daughter was four, but here's how it went down: She was in preschool, he was with the nanny, my parents were in town cooking and shopping and being generally helpful, the dog walker took Sanchi to the beach and the housekeeper -- and gardeners -- had just left. I was the ultimate stay-at-home mom that day.

It's easy, even a pleasure, to make mudpies with your kids when someone else is going to clean it all up.

To be continued after I've checked today's pictures to make sure my kids are dirty enough.