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Housewife Fantasies

September 20, 2007

You know, I’m not hard to please. Really. As the self-employed, married, homeschooling mother of 2 (yes only 2) I find life most enjoyable in the little things. I’ve never wanted big, extravagant gifts (they embarrass me) or lavish parties (they seem, well, too lavish) and the things I keep around the longest are often ridiculous to the outside observer.

I keep the ribbon from the gift Desiree gave me and the box it came in. Both are pretty and remind me of her. I still have the pictures of my baby boy’s ultrasound. The one where I wasn’t sure I was ready for baby #2 and then I saw him and fell in love. Truly in love. At first sight.

I’ve kept the note from my dad that he wrote many birthdays ago. It doesn’t say much but he wrote it. And I can’t get rid of the cheap little ring that states “M” because when the oldest was 6 he thought M was for Mom… Yes, it’s a hip-hop ring.

So, what does a busy, busy, busy mom like me fantasize about?

Going to bed before 11pm. Coffee I didn’t make, but made just the way I like it. My bathroom staying clean longer than 2 hours. Pajama day for 2 weeks in a row. A self-replenishing pantry, freezer and fridge. Nails that don’t break in dishwater and hair that can go 3 days without being washed and still look Brek Marvelous. An extra 45 minutes in the morning to walk the dog (this would happen if the bedtime was before 11pm…) and to enjoy G-d’s creation while it’s still crisp and bright. A car that doesn’t collect dust, grime and trash like a swirling vortex of despair. A babysitter who adores my kids, is always available and cleans up after herself and the kids. Oh and she lives next door.

I’m not hard to please. I don’t think.

But somehow? I think asking for perfect teeth and LASIK would have been more likely than the above.

So, I’m going to sit here behind my little desk, with a splitting headache that started somewhere between my shoulder blades and the base of my skull. I’m not going to go find my slippers, I’ll just be barefoot and complain about cold feet. I’m not going to put my hair up, it will just fall where it will and I’ll tackle the next job in front of me.

And I’ll wistfully imagine a clean bathroom, bubbles, champagne, Pavarotti singing in the background, candlelight and silk pajamas.

I’ll get a shower, sweats and George Norey.

Wouldn’t trade it for the world.