Man hands

I am a sucker for deep-tissue massage. When I peel myself off the table after being massaged, I want to feel like a piece of tenderized meat. For years I have searched for the perfect massage therapist to really get in there and work out the kinks, but everyone I go to has left me dissatisfied and wanting more.

 

Today, I have an appointment with Natasha. A friend recommended I try Natasha because, in her words, “she doesn’t mess around.” I am intrigued. 

 

I pull up to the bare-bones building where Natasha works and am struck by how it resembles Communist-bloc housing. Emblazoned in Russian in the front window is “Madison Hot Stone Therapy and Massage.” (I know it says this because, in smaller letters below, is the English translation.) Inside the shadowy and unquestionably not spa-like office, I meet Natasha. She is sturdy and robust, and my eyes immediately wander to her hands. They are like paddles. This is a little scary, and part of me wants to run. The other part of me is desperate for a decent massage, so I stay put.  

 

Speaking in a thick Russian accent, Natasha welcomes me and inquires about my “problem areas.”

“My entire body is my problem area!” I reply with a nervous barking laugh.

 

Natasha doesn’t smile. She leads me to her massage room and confirms that I want a deep-tissue massage instead of something lighter. When I nod, she says in her throaty voice, “I come from Soviet Union. In my country, deep tissue massage is very…intense. This is all right with you?” There is no turning back now. I am game.

 

After I disrobe and get settled on the table, which is covered with a bright homemade afghan (presumably from “her country”), Natasha begins. It takes approximately 4.5 seconds for me to realize that I have met my match. She starts with my ears, squeezing the lobes and cartilage in a way that is terrifying. I break out in a sweat and try to focus on my breathing. I never knew my ears were sore and needed to be massaged! I think feverishly. But clearly they do, because this hurts like a bitch!

                                                                                                                                                            

Natasha has a talent for seeking out many other body parts – my calves, my palms, the arches of my feet – where I wasn’t aware I was amassing stress. When she kneads these places, I feel my muscles protest against and then submit to her hands. It’s not exactly a restful experience, but my body is kind of enjoying being flattened like bread dough.  

 

As Natasha moves from head to toe, it is evident that she is more than a massage therapist: she is actually able to identify my medical conditions.

 

“You have asthma?” she asks. Yes, I do, but how in the world does she know that? As if reading my mind, she says, “I know because of the freckles you have on your body. In my country, we believe in ancient Eastern medicine. Everything is connected. ” I am skeptical of Natasha’s ancient Eastern medicine (how do freckles relate to lung function, anyway?) until she announces a few minutes later, “Ah! You also have sluggish digestion!”

“Yes,” I respond. Apparently there is some quality about my arms and legs that has alerted Natasha to the fact that my digestive track resembles an iron vault – what goes in does not, in fact, come out. I don’t understand the correlation between my arms and legs and intestines, but I’m becoming a fast believer in her Soviet way of looking at things.

 

“Are you successful in having bowel movements?” Natasha demands. Golly, this is a personal question, but I don’t see how I can possibly lie, seeing as though I am essentially naked and putty-like on the massage table before her.

 

“No, not exactly,” I sigh.

 

“Massage will help,” she declares. “Come back regularly and you will notice big difference.”

After all of my health concerns have been addressed, Natasha takes my massage to a different level by asking about my children. She wants to know how many I have, how old they are, and what they are like. She also wants to know if they cause me any stress. Before I can answer, tears are rolling down my cheeks. What has this woman done to me? I am falling apart! Who cries during a massage?! Of course they cause me stress!

 

She murmurs that she knows how challenging it is to raise children, because she has five of her own. By validating my struggles and saying all the things I need to hear, she turns the massage into a therapy session, which means my emotional state is now as pulpy as my muscles.     

 

Maybe it’s the warmth of the Soviet afghan or her soothing guttural voice or the way she very kindly causes me bodily pain. Whatever it is, I’m sold on Natasha.

 

When my massage is over, I feel emptied of all anxiety. Not only has she pounded out every ounce of frustration from my muscles, but she’s also managed to scour the dim corners of my mind. I make another appointment with her (how could I not?) and stumble to my car feeling light-hearted, optimistic and healthy. I feel – to quote Natasha – connected. It’s as if my entire being has been aligned.

 

As a mother, how often do I feel aligned? Never, but I suspect it’s something that might be good for me. If I can achieve this state of relaxation, even if it’s only once a month, maybe I can learn to better read the signs of stress as they accumulate in my body and deal with them before it’s too late.     

 

“There really is something to this mind-body stuff, isn’t there?” I exclaim to myself in wonder.

 

And then I drive home and proceed to not have sluggish digestion. Once. Twice. Three times. All in the same afternoon.

Review

In my job as a mother, there is one thing that is missing: an annual performance review.

 

How I long to sit down for a bracing chat with my direct supervisor to discuss my mothering abilities. We would talk about my strengths, challenges, and frustrations. We would set some goals, and I would receive some much-needed validation.

 

Alas, this is a pipe dream, because I do not have a direct supervisor – nor, sadly, do I anticipate getting one.

 

So, instead of dwelling on the fact that I’m doing this mom-thing without a jot of constructive feedback from anyone, I like to imagine I have a fairy godmother who is watching me as I go through the motions of my day, nodding encouragingly as I whip up a batch of homemade mashed potatoes and tsk-tsking me for ignoring the bed linens that need to be washed. I think that my fairy godmother would be thrilled to conduct my annual performance review, and that she would do so with aplomb (as well as a British accent):

 

Fairy Godmother: Overall, I am very pleased with the caliber of your work. Every morning you show up on time with energy and enthusiasm. Your ability to multi-task and your attention to detail are exemplary. I’m impressed that you consistently attend to your responsibilities, even though you’d rather be watching Project Runway or going to Starbucks.

 

Me: Thank you.

 

Fairy Godmother: I see that you worked overtime a remarkable 99% of your days on the job this year. You certainly went above and beyond the call of duty, especially during those middle-of-the-night shifts you picked up without advance notice.

 

Me: Yes, I did. Thanks.

 

Fairy Godmother: I am especially impressed with your meal-planning and execution. If my calculations are correct, you made roughly 1,095 meals this year, and that is a lot of time spent in the kitchen! I’m aware that no one in your family realizes how much effort you put into preparing food, but I certainly do – especially that lovely pot roast with root vegetables you made last week. Nicely done! On a side note, please watch your son’s sugar consumption. He hoards cookies and candy and has got what appears to be a gnarly sweet tooth.

 

Me: Duly noted.

 

Fairy Godmother:  There are a few things that you need to work on, so please take note:

 

1. You could try harder to do something crafty with your kids every now and then.
2. Baking brownies or cake (or anything, for that matter) from scratch won’t kill you.
3. You need to organize your closets before one of your children is struck by a falling object.
4. You should attend to that pile of mail and notes from school that has taken up residence on your kitchen counter.
5. You must tidy up the interior of your car. It’s revolting! That chunk of wasabi that fell under your seat when you were eating take-out sushi last April is still there!

 Me: Yes, it is. I appreciate the reminder and will take care of it right away.

 

Fairy Godmother: Now, let’s talk about the dreaded elephant in the room. And by elephant in the room I mean the dirty laundry you still haven’t washed and the clean laundry you still haven’t folded. It appears to be taking over your home.

 

Me: [Silent.]

 

Fairy Godmother: Is there a problem? 

 

Me: I’m sort of traumatized by my laundry, Fairy Godmother. It’s always there. As soon as I get one load finished, there are two other loads waiting to be done. It never goes away.  

 

Fairy Godmother: No, it doesn’t. But it’s gotten a little bit out of hand when you’re selecting clean clothing from a mountain of laundry located in the corner of your dining room – really, of all places! – rather than from your closet or dresser like normal people do.    

 

Me: I will try to be more responsive and timely with my laundry, I promise.   

 

Fairy Godmother: That’s good to hear. We will revisit this topic next year and see if you’re able to reduce the amount of days it takes for a load to be completed. I expect to see some change here.

Me: Absolutely. I will do my best.  

 

Fairy Godmother: Now, as we bring this review to a close, I would like to congratulate you on successfully keeping your children fed, bathed, dressed, educated, and physically fit. Because of your accomplishments, you are eligible for a salary increase and –

 

 

***OK, my imagination is starting to get away from me.

 

I snap out of my daydream and realize with dismay that I need to peel the carrots for dinner, review my kids’ homework, unload the dishwasher and – no surprise here – throw a load of clothes into the dryer.

 

I miss my Fairy Godmother already.  

 

Skipping

Me, age 39

 

I’m at the mall, where Christmas carols are playing. I get a little upset because it’s not even Thanksgiving yet. Aren’t we rushing things a wee bit?

 

I don’t know why I am appalled, seeing as though every year the world seems to launch directly into the Christmas season as soon as Halloween is over. I shouldn’t be surprised by this, but it’s always distressing to me when anything lovely and meaningful gets the shaft, and Thanksgiving is no exception.

 

It all comes down to this: I wish we could savor each distinct moment we happen to find ourselves in. It’s tedious and draining to constantly peer at what lies on the road ahead, ignoring the sweet spot of right now. We will never be able to enjoy this exact sweet spot again, so why are we trying to skip over it?

 

As I depart from the winter wonderland of the mall, I realize with a jolt that I am a total hypocrite. I admit to myself, with a good deal of shame, that in my role as a mother I regularly wish to fast forward through certain moments and jump headfirst into what’s next. I should have learned by now: The minute you catch yourself muttering, “I am so ready to be finished changing diapers,” all too soon you discover that your delectable toddler has turned into a feisty boy, wielding dangerous, pointy sticks to fight off imaginary monsters in the backyard. And the second you say, “Will my son ever stop wielding dangerous, pointy sticks to fight off imaginary monsters in the backyard?” he morphs into a first grader who fails his spelling test and gets in trouble for wrestling on the playground.

 

And so on and so forth.

 

Each moment in mothering presents its own unique set of challenges, but I need to learn how to be fully present where I’m at, regardless of what those challenges are. Because the view from here is inimitable and beautiful and rewarding in its own right. I must relish it before it disappears – and it will, in the blink of an eye.

 

No more skipping. Let’s hunker down and celebrate a divine Thanksgiving.

 

Christmas can wait.  

 

 

 

Flee

Every January, I get together with ten of my oldest friends. These are women I grew up with; some I’ve known since kindergarten. Nearly all of them are mothers, which means they are as desperate as I am to get a little respite from the demands of family life.

 

Without fail, we count down the days (and even hours) until our departure for our highly anticipated spa weekend. More to the point, we devolve into a bunch of giddy schoolgirls, texting each other about the wine we’re bringing and the facials we’ve booked. With each passing year, we seem to get more hysterical about things.

Take, for instance, my dear friend Sarah, who is my driving buddy from Madison to the resort an hour away. After leaving tire marks in my driveway and shrieking “TIME FOR MOMMY TO GET THE HELL OUT OF DODGE!” to my blissfully empty car, I fly across town at illegal speeds to pick up Sarah, who is standing in front of her house with her bags at her feet, checking her watch. She sees me and within ten seconds is ensconced in my passenger seat. If we could crack open one of the bottles of wine in my trunk, it would already be half-gone. 

 

As I pull away from Sarah’s house, she yells, “PEACE THE FUCK OUT!” at the top of her lungs. To whom, you may ask, is she wishing such tidings of goodwill? That would be her sweet husband and three kids, whose noses are forlornly plastered to the living room window as they watch us peel down the street. 

 

***

 

Sarah and I are far from alone in our almost breathtakingly intense desire to flee our families once in awhile. To get a rare moment to ourselves (or time with good girlfriends, who require nothing but laughter and idle gossip) is important for so many reasons. I’ve asked my friends to describe how they feel when they are able to steal away, whether it’s for an hour or for a weekend, and this is what they said:

• Balanced
• Whole
• At ease
• Unencumbered
• Non-suffocated
• Relaxed
• Free
• Quiet
• Young
• Lighter

It doesn’t necessarily require a trip out of town to get a break from our duties. My friend Terri says she likes to visit Bed, Bath & Beyond, where she can aimlessly roam the aisles by herself. Margaret loves to read in a coffee shop. Others, like my friend Liz, go running. She says, “My runs are the only time I literally have nothing but myself: no kids, no purse, no car. It’s the ultimate getaway just steps outside my front door.” Laura agrees: “The only time I truly feel free of my family responsibilities is when I go out without my cell phone, which is why I love going for a run. When the sun is right, it can feel like a Caribbean vacation.” OK, Laura, you might be exaggerating a tiny bit (because Wisconsin never feels like the Caribbean), but I admire your good attitude and think you’re on to something. Whether it’s running or shopping or getting a pedicure, it doesn't matter if we're in the Midwest or Mexico: it’s that we’re able to remember who we are without children hanging from our limbs – what makes us tick, what bring us delight, what makes us feel full and content and 25-years-old again.       

 

Virtually all of my friends indicate they do not get enough time to themselves. (I include myself in this group.) And yet, it goes without saying that the consequences of not getting physical and/or emotional space from our families every so often can be tough. We become unproductive, off-balance, stressed-out and short-tempered. My sister, who has three small kids, says she starts to feel terribly isolated. A friend of mine admits, “If there is nothing on my to-do list, I can become overwhelmed by the choices I have. It’s almost like I’ve lost the ability to be spontaneous. Then I become depressed by my inability to make the most of my time alone.” Another friend says, “I never get enough time to myself; there are just not enough hours in the day. Some nights I just cry. I don’t cry because I’m unhappy or angry. I cry as a relief from my exhaustion.”

 

Ann is one mom who is able to carve out time for herself without guilt or excuses, and I admire her endlessly for it. She says, “It’s critical to recharge on my own so I can be ready for my family when they need me. It’s like when our kids were newborns, and the pediatrician said, ‘Sleep when they sleep.’ It’s the same philosophy. You never know when you will be called in for overtime without notice.”

I aspire to be more like Ann, but it is awfully hard – although maybe it’s as simple as doing what Laura does when she can’t go for a run: “I retreat to the bathroom (behind a locked door or two) to take an extra-long shower or read a magazine,” she says. Liz has a similar philosophy: “Sometimes I have to get creative. I read in the car pick-up line at school, and it’s often my favorite 20 minutes of the day. Any time I can be on my own is equivalent to putting on my yoga pants after a long day in tight jeans.”   

However we go about accomplishing it, I think we all need to flee a little bit more, because no one wants to spend her entire life in tight jeans. When we commit to putting on our metaphorical yoga pants and taking better care of ourselves, everyone benefits. As my wise friend Lisa says, “If I am happy as a human being, I am happy as a mother. And a happy mom is a good mom.”  

 

***

 

Unsurprisingly, my friends and I are happy human beings for our two idyllic days at the spa. Between massage appointments and soaks in the hot tub, Liz suddenly gets serious. She proceeds to summarize, in the most eloquent way, why our trip is so critical to her well-being: “Obviously, sitting around in a robe is relaxing. But even more important is the relaxing of my mind. There is nothing to do or worry about. For just a little while, I don’t have to be defined by someone or something else. I’m not the wife, the mom, the helpful neighbor, the overachieving volunteer, the hardworking co-worker, the snack mother, or the carpooler. Although I love those roles in my life, I just get to be me.”

Fallout

If your child hasn’t suffered the indignity of head lice, chances are you can rattle off the names of one or more of your good friends whose children have.

 

I, dear reader, am one of those good friends.

 

Twice I have gone to war against these revolting microscopic parasites, and each battle has left me permanently scarred. I know that I am not alone in feeling damaged for life, which is why I’m writing about head lice today – not to give you the willies, but to remind us all that we are united in our skirmishes against the enemy.

 

When I asked my fellow unlucky friends to describe to me in one or two words what it is like when a child has lice, I received a flurry of responses. These responses were precise and witty and smart and sad. (In many cases, they were much longer than one or two words. No matter. I have chatty friends.) This is how they describe the experience of lice, and yes, it is completely normal that your own head is starting to itch right now:    

 

• Evil.
• Demoralizing.
• I had to relocate my entire life to the Laundromat.
• Overwhelming.
• I used to have a stigma that only a certain “type” of family got lice. That stigma has gone out the window. 
• A pain in the ass.
• Demanding. I have tried full-on chemical treatments as well as organic ones. Nothing works 100% except sitting and picking out every bug and nit from my kids’ heads, which takes hours upon hours.
• Tedious.
• Unfair. My kids are clean and careful, and they’ve gotten it a few times.
• Exhausting.
• I appreciate that I have enough money, time and resources to deal with a lice outbreak, unlike many other people.
• Paranoia-inducing.
• I feel very intimate with all of my children’s heads.
• Humiliating.
• Heart-breaking.
• I look at everything differently now: movies, haircuts, sleepovers. I get anxious about them. I don’t even really want my kids cuddling together any more.
• I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone.
• Isolating.
• Expensive. My washer broke from the 17 continuous loads of laundry I had to do, and I had to buy a new one.
• Time-sucking.
• Following my deep-clean of the house, I’m pretty sure you could have eaten off the floor and even performed surgery.

The one word that comes to my own mind when I think about the ordeal of head lice is “fallout.” This is because the aftermath of lice has proven to be almost as traumatizing as the lice itself. Take, for example, the four primary ways that life has appreciably altered for me and my poor family:

 

1. I turn into a raving lunatic when I hear the word “lice.”

 

You know the note you get from school indicating that a case of head lice has been detected in your child’s classroom? When I am in receipt of this dreaded missive, our household goes into immediate lice lockdown. I inspect my kids’ heads without delay, refusing to let them leave the kitchen until they are declared lice-free. But wait! Before they can go about their normal business, I mist a liberal amount of tea tree oil (a natural lice repellent found at your local Whole Foods store) all over them, as well as their backpacks, coats and clothing. Unfortunately, the smell of tea tree oil makes my children nauseous, so I am forced to deal with a good deal of gagging and other such nonsense. After this, I strip beds, wash linens, and vacuum the rugs. And then I check my own head, just to be safe. (See #4.) 

 

Once, when my son was in nursery school, the teacher discovered head lice on one of his classmates during rug time (the horror!), and told all of us parents to be extra vigilant. To me, this meant literally stripping Owen naked in the nursery school parking lot and bagging his clothes, then examining his scalp before allowing him into the car to go home. This situation was probably kind of upsetting for Owen (see #2), but as I said, I am a lunatic when lice is involved.       

 

2. My children are going to need therapy someday.

 

My children are no longer able to simply scratch their heads without me swooping in to conduct a thorough investigation. I sense they are growing weary of my watchfulness. Just last week, my daughter Caroline asked me, “Mom, isn’t it possible that my itch might just be a regular itch?” Yes, Caroline, it is entirely possibly that your itch might just be a regular itch, but I can’t keep away. I need to reassure myself that there are no bugs taking up residence in your beautiful hair. I am aware that my alarmist tendencies are likely to give you and your siblings lifelong scalp-related neuroses, and for this I am deeply sorry.  

 

3. I have become a zealot for head lice educational reform.

 

I regularly interrogate my children on the dos and don’ts of head lice. The following conversation, in fact, is typical of what goes on at our dinner table:  

 

Me: Are you ever allowed to share combs, brushes, barrettes, headbands, towels or bike helmets with anyone else?

 

My kids: (in unison) No!

 

Me: Should you lean in really close to other children while you’re playing or working together at school?

 

My kids: (in unison) No!

 

Me: If you hear about any kid having lice, even if he or she is not in your own class or grade, will you tell Mommy right away?

 

My kids: (in unison) Yes!

 

If only other people were as quick to learn. Take, for example, my kids’ music teacher. In the midst of a school-wide lice outbreak, she put on a sort of "wild west" musical performance for parents during which our children pranced onto stage wearing pioneer bonnets – pioneer bonnets that were being shared among all the kids. The millisecond the show came to an end, I bolted to the school nurse’s office, demanding to know why the music teacher hadn’t gotten the memo on proper head hygiene. The nurse was quite considerate with me while I was on that particular tirade, and she has been just as considerate while I have been on numerous others.  

 

4. I wrestle with my own personal head lice demons.

 

It remains a miracle that after exterminating multiple bouts of lice on my children’s heads, I haven’t gotten lice myself. Far less surprising is the fact that I constantly think I have lice. If I have the slightest itch or tickle, I race to the mirror to examine my scalp up close. I never find anything, but it’s easy to convince myself that I have a full-blown case.

 

On my worst days, I hide in the bathroom and use a lice comb to go through every inch of my hair. In many instances, my husband has walked in on me, making me feel as though I’m doing something illicit. Awhile back he was sympathetic to my lice fixation; now he shakes his head ruefully. “Not again,” he moans. “Not again.”

 

***

 

You can see how head lice has addled my brain and affected the mental well-being of my entire family. Is it pleasant? No. Is it to be expected? Yes. I believe we should all get a free pass when it comes to our lice hang-ups.   

 

Above all, we need to remember that many mothers have walked this path of lice madness before us, and many more will follow. It’s our job to hold their hands along the way, commiserating as best we can. 

 

Let’s fight the good fight, ladies, regardless of the fallout.

Thanks, Mom. I love you, Mom. You're the best, Mom.

Me, age 39

 

My friend Lisa is over for dinner to celebrate the start of the school year. We are swapping stories from our summers and congratulating each other on surviving. I feel bedraggled after the non-stop activity of the last couple months, but Lisa says that her husband and kids did something to radically boost her own flagging spirits.

 

“I got out of bed last week,” Lisa says, “and I went downstairs to find a huge poster hanging in our dining room. It said ‘THANK YOU, MOM!’ and the kids had covered the paper with descriptions of all the things I did for them this summer. They had bought a bouquet of flowers, and each of them had written me a thank-you card. It was unbelievably thoughtful and renewing.”

 

As Lisa talks, my husband, who is listening to our conversation, shrinks into the couch, sheepish. Neither he nor my children has done anything to acknowledge my efforts this summer. “Lisa, you have to stop telling Laura all this,” he entreats. “It’s making me look bad.”

 

“No, honey, it isn’t,” I reassure him.  

 

OK, I’m lying. 

 

Formal – or even informal – recognition of my toil and time does not come naturally to those in my family. This is an unfortunate fact that I must accept. And – glumly – I do. But who wouldn’t love to wake up to posters and flowers and thank-you notes, acknowledging the million things we do for our kids?

 

Since my dinner with Lisa, I’ve been trying not to feel envious of the sincere display of appreciation showered on her. Instead, I remind myself that for many children (and husbands too, apparently), gratitude must be taught and reinforced. As a result, I launch a household campaign of gratefulness, pointedly thanking my family for loading the dishwasher, taking out the trash, making their beds, etc. etc.   

 

Sadly, my tactics don’t seem to work as effectively as I had envisioned (which is to say that I have yet to hear anyone thank me for anything), so I resort to more drastic measures: If my kids and husband are unable to produce words of gratitude on their own, then I will put the words directly in their mouths for them. To that end, I come up with a sort of chant that is easy to memorize. It goes like this: “Thanks, Mom! I love you, Mom! You’re the best, Mom!” I instruct my family to say it with vigor, like they really mean it.  

 

Now, when I hand them their freshly folded clean laundry or make their favorite meal for dinner, I give them a little nudge and nod my head encouragingly. And I hear the sweet (if forced) sound of gratitude: “Thanks, Mom! I love you, Mom! You’re the best, Mom!”

 

I am aware that, to a certain extent, my family is humoring me (I know this because the exclamation points never quite make it into my kids’ delivery), but I’ll take it for now. I remain optimistic that one day, my kids and husband will say these words from the heart – spontaneously, meaningfully, and without being cued. And that will be lovely.

 

But if they want to throw in some flowers and cards too, I'd appreciate it.

 

 

Servidora

Me, age 39

 

I’m having lunch with my friend Margaret, who is telling me about the foreign exchange student she hosted this summer. I think welcoming a foreign exchange student into one’s home is commendable, but when you’re the mother of four kids, it’s downright heroic. I try to express my admiration, but Margaret waves me off.

 

“I have to tell you about Javi from northern Spain ,” she says, referring to the student himself. “Javi’s family has a nanny and a housekeeper, and it sounds like the housekeeper does all the cooking. Javi’s mother doesn’t work, and she doesn’t drive either because she says it’s too much responsibility with her four boys in the car.”

 

My jaw is starting to fall into my bowl of crimini mushroom soup. Margaret goes on, “They live in a five-bedroom apartment, so they have no need for lawn care. They often eat meals at their country club, and they also spend a lot of time at their grandmother’s house, where there’s yet another housekeeper who cooks.”

 

“So what does Javi’s mom do all day?” I ask. Margaret has no clue. We cannot fathom the existence of this mysterious mother from northern Spain, who presumably has ample time to sit on her couch and eat proverbial bonbons.  

 

“What does Javi think of you?” I ask. Lacking the live-in help to which Javi is accustomed, Margaret must seem as alien to him as his mother seems to us.   

 

“Well, all of his clothes were definitely ironed when he arrived, and they were definitely wrinkled when he left. But he made no comment to me about what I do – or don’t do, in this case – around the house,” Margaret says. I nod my head in understanding. Ironing kids’ clothes is not on my radar either. There are too many other things to do.

 

It’s funny that Margaret and I are having this conversation, because lately my nine-year-old daughters have been complaining about their own household chores. Just last week, for example, I asked them to strip their beds so I could wash their sheets; in response, they gave me serious attitude, whining, “You make us do so much work, Mom. It’s like we’re your servants.”

 

“Really?!” I fancied saying to them (but didn’t). “Allow me to walk you through the innumerable mind-numbing duties required of me daily, none of which I am compensated or acknowledged for – unless there’s no clean underwear in your dresser or fresh fruit in the fridge. Then I get an earful.”

 

I can’t expect my daughters to appreciate all the work that goes into being a mother, so I don’t engage them in my repartee. Instead, I toss their sheets in the washing machine and start making breakfast. Taped to the inside of one of my kitchen cabinets is a clipping from Real Simple magazine that provides the validation I and so many other mothers need, whether they stay at home or are employed full-time. In fact, I have practically memorized the text because I gaze at it every time I grab a stack of plates, like now:

 

$112,962

The yearly salary a 2012 stay-at-home mom would earn (that is, if she were paid), as determined by the career-advice website Salary.com. The income was calculated by combining the average wages, plus overtime, for the jobs a mom typically performs, including laundress, janitor, driver, cook, facilities manager, psychologist, and CEO of the household.

 

***

 

As Margaret and I finish up our anything-but-dull lunch, she offers one last nugget of information about Javi. “He did say that he likes my cooking,” Margaret admits. I’m not surprised, because Margaret is a marvelous cook on top of everything else.

 

We aren’t paid for any of the work we do in our homes, but I’m confident if you pitted Margaret – or me, or any of my fellow mom friends – against Javi’s mother and her entire household staff, we would win hands-down. I’d put my euros on it.