I don’t want this column to turn into a full-time bitch session.
But, oh, it would be so easy to do.
I sit at my home-office desk, my 16-month-old tucked away at daycare six miles from my house, and I try to concentrate on writing and research amid overwhelming evidence of my inadequacies as a wife, sister, daughter and mother.
But I’m at least an adequate to above-average reporter, right?
There’s the dog at my feet who really, really, really needs to visit the vet.
There’s carpet under the dog too encumbered with piles of useless mess to vacuum on a more regular basis.
There are the unanswered emails in my inbox, books I will probably never read, my mother’s stamp collection that remains unexplored and tax records scattered about my desk.
Perhaps we should all answer to a higher authority on get-your-@#$%@- together.
I read horror stories of families in the woods whose children haven’t been to school in weeks and are playing amid animal mess and old food.
Okay, I think. At least I’m not that bad. But really, didn’t my family set a higher bar for me than jail time at the hands of social services?
I will officially declare this an off week as perfect homemaker. At least so far I scratched my dog’s belly, joined my husband for a cold beer, made my baby laugh and hung out with my dad for a pleasantly slow, too-hot boat ride on Hartwell Lake at dusk.
The piles of clutter can wait until next week.
Tags: Anna Mitchell, baby, mother, work
