My life is a pocket, being emptied before the endless parade of pants go into the machine.

A crumpled $20 bill. It’s enough for a day – a coffee, a burger, a pretty bobble from Target – but wouldn’t make a dent in a year’s worth of bills and car payments and mortgages. My worth as a mother isn’t paid in dollars and cents, so I am both worthless and priceless.

A rubber band. My patience being pulled and stretched and twisted further and further with each temper tantrum, each unwashed dish, each crying baby. Sometimes in breaks and someone gets stung, a hurtful snap I immediately regret and I vow that next time I won’t let it get so tight.

A paper clip. Holding it all together a day at a time. Doctor’s appointments, vet appointments, car maintenance, groceries, playgroups, laundry, dishes, bedtimes, start all over. Papers papers everywhere and that file cabinet I was planning to use still empty. I need an hour a day a month to organize before I’m buried alive.

A goldfish cracker. The compromise between having a hungry, cranky toddler and eating nothing but organic, locally grown produce hand-picked by virgins under a full moon. The place where doing what is “best” for my family meets doing what is best for ME when it comes to my family and the guilt I do or do not feel when I cut corners. Sometime delicious trumps perfection.

A band-aid wrapper, the band-aid long since peeled off a skinned knee. I cover up the boo-boos, deal with the pain, pretend it’s not a big deal. I’m glad the hurt is so small but the scars are still there even after the scrape is gone.

Lint. Dog hair. My hair that is still falling out by the handful thanks to post-partum hormones. Messes of all kinds invade my space. Bits of yarn. Crumbs. Pen marks. Dirty feet. Messy faces. Playdoh ground into the carpet. Drips of milk. The remnants of a day full of fun, sunshine and creativity.

A penny. For luck. We are all healthy, clothed, fed, loved and safe. So much luck.

I had a MAJOR BREAKTHROUGH this week. It is epic. Truly life-changing. I actually cannot believe it took me this long to get here, because now it seems so totally obvious. Are you ready to hear about it? Are you super excited?

OK, here goes…

I am a homemaker.

I KNOW, RIGHT?

I’m serious though. In 6 1/2 years of marriage (the last 2 1/2 of which I have not had an outside job) I have never thought of myself as someone who is in charge of a home. I thought of all the stuff that keeps this place running – cleaning and laundry and cooking and dishes – as CHORES, chores I hated, chores I tried to avoid. I spent a lot of time and energy being pissed off that I was expected to do these things. It’s because I’m a WOMAN. It’s so SEXIST and UNFAIR and DAMN THE MAN for pushing me into this gender stereotype!

Until I realized wait a minute…I wasn’t pushed into a role I was unhappy with. I wanted this. Yes it’s true that the other option – me working and E staying home – wasn’t ever really on the table (the Navy doesn’t exactly let you quit just because your wife is tired of doing the dishes) but his job stability and paycheck was part of why I signed up for this marriage. Wait, that sounds bad. What I mean is knowing E could provide for me and our future children was one of the things I liked about him from the start. Wait, that still sounds bad. Before we even GOT married we decided I would stay home once we had kids. We just forgot to negotiate out what “staying home” included.

(If you still think the previous paragraph makes me sound like a gold-digger, let me assure you, there is no gold to dig. There is maybe a frappuchino or two and possibly a new toilet seat – SO SEXY – to replace the broken one. But no gold.)

My “ah-ha” moment came the other night while I was trying to make dinner. I say “trying” because it is difficult to cook while a toddler throws his entire weight against the back of your knees and screams for more milk. I’m not saying it’s impossible, but you’re much more likely to cut off a finger and I kind of like having a nice even number. So, in a conscious act of gentle patient parenting (something I am working on SO HARD with mixed success and/or results) I got down on Little Evan’s level and said, “Honey, Mommy needs you to go play in the family room. Mommy is making dinner right now, which is part of her job. You know how I watch you during the day while daddy works? Well, right now I need Daddy to watch you while Mommy works.”

It was like a light bulb went off in my head. MY JOB. Making dinner is my job. Housekeeping is my job. I should have work hours and a lunch break. I should be allowed to do my job without the toddler climbing up my butt. People DO get paid for these things – a cook, a housekeeper – so why shouldn’t I value my work?

(Of course, none of that applies to motherhood. Kids don’t give a crap about my stupid “job” theory, especially when they need something something right now NOW I WANT IT NOW MAMA SOMETHING FOR ME NOOOOOOW. That also means parenting duties during hours we are both home are still 50/50. I’m not some kind of June Cleaveresque mommy martyr.)

So while E is off doing…nuclear Navy stuff, I am here doing the house stuff. There’s stuff that needs to be done every day, stuff I hate to do, stuff that has to be done a zillion times a day, and stuff that only needs to be done every once in a while. So I made a list. Actually, I made three lists:

Do these every day
– Laundry
– Dinner
– Empty and clean sink (my tribute to the FlyLady method and the ONLY part of her plan I’m adopting)
– Put all the toys in the toy box
– Feed animals
– Scoop cat box

Do one of these each day
– Clean a bathroom
– Sweep/mop downstairs
– Vacuum upstairs
– Dust
– Clean out fridge
– Declutter flat surfaces

Do these as needed
– Menu plan
– Grocery shop
– Buy bulk items (toilet paper, diapers, etc)

Yesterday I scrubbed down the powder room and it felt AWESOME. Today I straightened up the dining room and feel FANTASTIC. If someone were to stop by for an impromptu dinner I could not only feed them, I could serve it to them on a clean table. The best part is I am no longer overwhelmed and angry about all this housework. When I’m not spending all my time putting it off and sending E angry glares for not helping it doesn’t really take that long to load a dishwasher. Of course, on the weekends there WILL be helping. And when I am sick/need a scheduled day off (and there WILL be scheduled days off) I’ll have a concrete to-do list E can follow. It’s not fancy and it’s not worthy of a book deal (or even an Excel spreadsheet) but I do feel like this is a major change for the better.

Secret bonus part of my new “job?” I get paid in impromptu shopping trips to Target for new black flats and bright colored tights, guilt free.

Now excuse me, I have to go shine my sink.

I’m currently deep in the throes of Trying To Do It All with a side of Why Yes, I Am Suzy Homemaker and a dash of Impossibly High Standards on top. I get like this every time I face a new year/life change/burst of energy and end up driving myself crazy in the process. But that doesn’t stop me from trying. It’s especially bad right now because I’ve combined the pressure of Starting Over In The New Year with the pressure to act like I have my act together as Mother of Two. And don’t get me started on how insane the constant barrage of DIET DIET DIET LOSE WEIGHT YOU’RE SO FAT JOIN A GYM DIET DIET EAT MORE FIBER EAT LESS FOOD GET YOUR BODY BACK from the television makes me. Someday maybe I’ll write a whole post on why exactly that kind of talk is so dangerous (not just in general but for me personally), but for now lets just say I’m enjoying my final 3 weeks of birth/labor recovery before I’m even ALLOWED to work out and not worrying about getting anything “back”. Besides my clean floors, clean bathrooms, clean fridge, clean pantry, organized closets, organized shelves, mopped kitchen, vacuumed floors, etc etc etcetcetcetc. ETC. I would like those back. Because despite the fact that what I really want to be doing is napping, I am instead framing artwork for a new grouping in our formal living room and making menu plans for hypothetical play dates. (NO REALLY, I WAS DOING THAT TODAY.)

Of course, as I write this my toddler is stomping on his lunch (and by lunch I mean pizza flavored Goldfish I threw in his general direction around 2 pm), I’m wearing yoga pants, dinner isn’t started and I’m on my fourth caffeinated beverage of the day.

So clearly, I’m not setting the bar TOO high.

What I mean is I’ve decided to become the kind of person who never lets laundry pile up, whose bathrooms are always clean, who makes dinner from scratch (or at least doesn’t order pizza) every night, who never raises her voice or gets frustrated with her children, who wears clothes that fit and loses all the baby weight within two months, thanks to 4 times a week workouts to which I am never late. I will change the very essence of my being and 28 years of habits and nevermind the fact that I have never not even once made this kind of commitment stick for more than just a few days. THIS TIME will be different.

Basically, really, I’ve decided to FAIL. I’m going to stay on top of things for exactly two days and then spend the next two months beating myself up about it. I am going to have exactly one person over for one play date where I provide healthy snacks and a clean carpet and charming conversation and wear real pants. But as soon as they go home I will collapse on the couch and change into pajamas and stuff my face with brownies and yell at my toddler and order pizza for dinner and leave the box on the floor.

Because honestly, that’s the kind of mother I am. Laid-back. Which is a nice way of saying lazy. Or maybe I’m just a little overwhelmed right now.

It would be so much better for everyone if I just tried to do SOME stuff instead of EVERYTHING. Set reasonable goals, like one load of laundry a day or loading the dishwasher every night or cooking 4 nights a week. Gee, that sounds so reasonable and do-able and normal. Clearly not something I am at ALL interested in being. Why would I possible want to avoid an opportunity to beat myself up about how I suck at motherhood?

ISSUES: I HAVE THEM.

p.s. My attempts at perfect have been thwarted EVEN SOONER than I could have predicted, thanks to what seems to be yet another kidney infection. Instead of making the dinners I planned and shopped for I’m forcing my family to forage for microwave popcorn and apples while I lie on the couch moaning through chills and a 102 fever. Which is why this post is super whiny – it’s hard to be funny when it feels like someone kicked you repeatedly in the back with steel toed boots.

p.p.s. I’m calling the doctor today. They were closed yesterday due to the snow and unless I am in so much pain I can’t function I’m trying to avoid the emergency room. Not super fun with a 3 week old.

Even though I never did make the switch to cloth diapers (although I’d still consider it if someone wanted to send me a bunch for free ARE YOU LISTENING INTERNETS?) it doesn’t mean my baby laundry is entirely poop free. Oh yeah, you read that right. Poop. Now I’ve said poop twice (three times!) so please feel free to move on, childless friends.

For those of you for whom poop is just a way of life now, I have a totally un-sponsored, un-paid for, un-compensated suggestion for you: BioKleen Bac-Out . I LOVE it. It’s like having your own set of tiny elves who climb into your machine and scrub off all the disgusting stains. The real reason it works is because it’s full of itty bitty invisible crap-eating monsters enzymes that suck the smells and gross stuff right out of your laundry. Plus it’s all, like, natural and stuff so you don’t have to worry about the baby’s skin peeling off bleach or nasty chemicals. AND it smells really good, not patchouli-ish or hippie-dippie at all. Clean. And a little bit like limes.

So far I’ve used it to remove blood, puke, green poop, yellow poop, globs of poop, pee, spit up, and cat urine. (Just for the record, the cat pee wasn’t on the baby’s stuff.) I used to spot treat every article of baby clothing but with the Bac-Out I just squirt some in the machine and set it to 15-minute soak (or you could do what I did with my less fancy machine and just open the lid for a few minutes once it’s done filling). So far it’s saved me about a billion dollars in baby sleepers, as my child is unable to make it through the night without leaking various fluids all over himself and if I had to replace them every time my Target credit card balance would be even closer to the National Debt than it already is.

Go buy some! Buy some for your friends! Buy some for anyone who has a baby, a dog, a cat or a hamster, anyone who gardens or does housework or eats food. Buy some Bac-Out for your friendly neighborhood vampires and serial killers (it works great on blood) and they will thank you for you. And also possibly spare your life.

You’re welcome.

When I first found out I was pregnant I immediately went into list-making mode, creating Excel spreadsheets, Word documents, scribbles on the back of receipts, filling notebooks and day planners full of things to buy, things to do, things to attend. I searched Amazon for other people’s lists of baby gear must-haves. I read dozens of reviews and mommy blogs to find the BEST bouncy seat and the BEST swing and the BEST crib mattress and crossed stuff off my lists as I went.

But nowhere in the great interwebs or the parenting magazines or the advice books did anyone say this:

BUY A BETTER WASHING MACHINE.

Now, I realize some of you are going to curse me soundly for complaining about my old washer when you still have to haul all your clothes down to your building’s shared basement laundry – or worse, to the laundromat blocks away. Let me just say, I’ve been there too. But having My Very Own In-House Laundry was absolutely #1 on my list of Things To Do Before Getting Pregnant, followed by Have A Really Embarrassing Vegas Story and Drink A Beverage That Was Previously On Fire, so I feel like maybe I should have been more specific. Maybe my list should have said My Very Own Washing Machine That Actually, You Know, Launders, Spins and Doesn’t Leak Water All Over My Floor.

We bought the old washer four years ago when we suddenly found ourselves renting a house with hook-ups and the nearest laundromat twenty miles away. We paid $35 at a yard sale. I think we’ve definitely gotten our money’s worth out of that purchase, even including the $30 E spent replacing the water pump a couple months ago when we first considered buying a whole new machine. But there were so many other things to spend money on, cute things with teddy bears or little sailboats or smiling monkeys on them, why throw out something that was still working?

On Sunday, the machine stopped draining, and yet somehow still managed to leak a couple inches of water into the tray we had very wisely placed underneath. I decided it was time to send my $35 washer off to the Big Appliance Shop in the Sky. A quick trip to Bernie’s and one medium sized dent in our savings account later, the new machine was on it’s way. They delivered it Tuesday morning (and took the old one away, thank God). And now…WOW. Never in my life have I been this excited to do laundry. I washed every dirty article of clothing, bedding, towel and pillow in the house. And everything is so CLEAN. CLEAN AND NOT SMELLY! Not only is the machine (a GE Profile, for the record) super energy efficient (estimated yearly operating cost: $22), the dryer takes half as long as it used to now that the clothes go in with most of the water already spun out. And did I mention the CLEANING? Tuesday morning there was a really terrible stealth poopsplosion that resulted in yellow baby crap smeared across several articles of clothing and what I thought was a permanent stain on the changing pad cover. But my new washer was all “I GOT THIS” and the poop is GONE. It never occurred to me that the old washer was such a piece of crap it was actually failing to clean stuff and a new machine would improve my life this much. I feel like I’ve just discovered cheese or chocolate or yoga pants. Other magic features: a digital time remaining display, two presoak settings, and no agitator post in the middle – which means I can fit a whole comforter in the drum. Do you understand now why I’ve written an entire post about a washing machine?!

Now if only I could get E to agree to buy the matching dryer too…