Motherhood. Cheers.

There are those rare times when I get lemon bitter and jalapeno pretzel twisted about being a stay-at-home mom (usually Monday to Friday up until happy hour but including feeding and bedtime.) It’s a thankless job. You schlep, dress, play with, teach, feed and Cha Cha around the lounge for your kids and they reward you with a Oscar worthy tantrum and a threat that they’re leaving to go live with the cool mom down the corridor.

It’s this “meaner” my husband comes home to at night. A frazzled, tracksuited up, bitter Sue Ellen-like creature clutching her whiskey for dear life. “Oh I’m so sorry”, he says. But he’s not. He gets a get out of jail free card every morning when he goes to work. “Cheers love you have a good day.” Fuck you.

The truth is I did choose to stay home with my kids. I did it for several reasons but mostly because I thought it would be different. Everything I learned about mothering came from watching Family Ties. At the end of each episode the kids, no matter how akin to Satan they had been in the day, would realize their follies and profusely, remorsefully, with huge Bambi-eyes apologize, hug that woman with the mad, fizzy, yellow hair and tell her how much they appreciate her. Not my kids. They don’t get the moral of the story. Turns out life isn’t a 80s sitcom and then you die.

Oh I know, it’s not all bad. I’m not chained to a desk, I don’t have to squeeze into a pencil skirt, I get to play with invisible people. And then there are those heart-throbbingly endearing moments when my family actually acknowledge the work I do, and, head-banging drum roll please, thank me for it. Like when my youngest told me I should be on Top Chef because I make the best chicken soup from Wholefoods. Or when my eldest told me that I’m the best mom in the world because you can only have one mom. Hallmark moments. Of course sentiment is wonderful in its soap-sud rarity but nothing says “Thanks Mom” like a pair of Prada Boots.