Humor

The Freelance Mommy

My day starts with the dog puking on the floor. I throw off the covers and strain to see the time -- we've overslept again. I leave the mess where it is and rush to my daughter's room to get her up, fed, and dressed. This takes about an hour -- three-year-olds have a knack for stalling. I finally get her out the door, only to realize I forgot to dress myself.

Now I have to run back upstairs and throw something on. This will take a small miracle. At nearly nine months pregnant, running anywhere, particularly up stairs, is physically impossible. Also, even with three closets full of clothes, almost nothing fits any more. Basically, I'm down to the black jumper or my back-up jammies. As much as I'd love to wear my jammies all day, I grab the jumper.

I drive my daughter to daycare. There I endure the heart-wrenching display she insists on torturing me with every time I drop her off. Prying skinny, little arms from around my neck, I escape to the minivan and head to my appointment with Dr. K. As I drive, I spritz on gobs of hairspray and pray for a red light so I can smear on some eyeliner. With my family's schedule, I get one, maybe two days a week to "work," and by the time I get out of the stirrups this day is half-over.

Back at home, the first order of business is lunch, of course. Now I have exactly three hours and 22 minutes to tackle the e-mails, round up presenters for that conference I volunteered to help with, and write the article that's due Friday. I know a nap is out of the question, but I pencil it in anyway.

So this is the freelance life. Very glamorous. It's still beats the heck out of filling piles of prescriptions while answering two phones at once and listening to Mrs. Lippnikki describe her hemorrhoid surgery in graphic detail. I'm doing what I started out to do at age ten and managed to chicken out of until last year, when that omnivorous corporation devoured the pharmacy I worked for. Of course, I never envisioned I'd be trying to establish a writing career while running a household and wrangling a temperamental toddler, a precocious puppy, a persnickety cat, and a sweet but exasperating husband. As if that wasn't enough, my husband and I thought the chaos had mellowed a bit much and decided to get pregnant again. I figure I have maybe eight or nine months before Baby Two gets interested in my keyboard and must be evicted from my office.

Ignoring my to-do list, I pull out my keyboard and plunk out the following ad:

Nanny needed for in-home care of two kids, ages 3 yrs. and almost born. Job requires keeping kids and animals out of Mom's office for at least four consecutive hours three times weekly. Must enjoy dog kisses and be proficient at picking up cat poop. Extensive repertoire of Barney songs highly desirable.

I now have three hours and seventeen minutes left. I often hear people wishing aloud for more hours in the day. This sounds like the answer to everything, but I know exactly what would happen: I would just find more projects to fill the extra time, and I still wouldn't get more than five hours of sleep a night.

Although the day isn't over, it's a cinch to predict how it will end. I'll count the minutes until my husband arrives so I can skip off to finish my article. When he gets home, however, I'll see that he's completely exhausted and I'll forgo the work to let him get some rest. This is not the least bit altruistic on my part. Men have a low tolerance for discomfort -- I'm sure there's a study somewhere to back me up on this -- and I don't want to hear any complaints from someone who has absolutely no idea what it's like to carry a watermelon-sized infant in his belly (not to mention deliver the darn thing).

Nope, I'll just get my daughter ready for bed, do the dishes, and vacuum when I think he's had enough rest. Then I'll be up all night writing that article. And I get to do it all over again next week. I am, after all, a freelance mommy.

By Jillene Magill-Lewis.
Jillene is a pharmacist, freelance writer, mother, wife, vizsla owner, minivan driver, and closet cookie-dough eater.