Mom’s day off: no rest for the weary

I work part-time. This means that I have one day off during the work week. Or, as us moms like to call it, the day where I don’t get paid for all the crap I do. And for the stay-at-home mom, just another day that I don’t get paid for all the crap I do.

My day begins at 4 a.m., when I get up and make breakfast for my husband before he leaves for work. Now, before the women reading this either groan at the horrible precedent I’m setting or curse me for my June Cleaver-like anti-feminist behavior, take a breath. The reasons that I awake at this ungodly hour each weekday are many, but the big one is that it’s not frugal, and certainly not natural, to buy a deli breakfast every morning. Even if they were open that early.

So I drag my butt out of bed, fry up a quick egg sandwich and pack the husband’s lunch. Then I send him on his way and get back in bed to sneak in another hour and a half of sleep before round two starts at 6 a.m.

The second alarm is always worse. Though four o’clock is awful and there are mornings I want to cry and/or smash the alarm clock to itty bitty bits of unrecognizable plastic and wire, at least I know it’s temporary. In just 30 minutes or less, I’ll be back under the covers.

There’s something horrifically final about getting up for the day, knowing that many, many hours will pass before I can once again get back into my beloved bed. I didn’t always feel this way. Once upon a time, I was up and at ’em, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to catch that worm and whatever other cliche you can come up with. My daughter brought up this issue just the other day, “I guess as I get older, I’ll just get more and more tired.”

“Well,” I replied, “actually, your energy level should stay pretty constant.” I started to explain that as a teenager, the hours of the day in which she has the most energy may change as she is growing and developing, but she should be able to maintain good energy as long as she continues to eat right and exercise.

It was clear she was perplexed. After a brief moment of Vulcan mind-melding, it became obvious that her confusion was based on my near constant state of exhaustion. I felt it necessary to clear this up.

“Oh, I used to have all sorts of energy,” I assured my little princess, “until I became a mother.”

And that brings us right back to round two. Six a.m. usually finds me staring at the ceiling, having a discussion with myself. Do I really have to wake up right now? What if I just hit snooze for another 10 minutes? How much will that throw off the schedule? Will there still be time for three different, individual, hot breakfasts? How much shower time will I lose? Crap, I’ve already lost three minutes thinking about this. Now I definitely can’t sleep for 10 more minutes. What if the alarm doesn’t go off a second time? Did I hit snooze or did I turn it off completely? Oh for the love of God, I’ll just get up now.

The day doesn’t officially begin until I’ve started the caffeine IV line. And then we’re off. Breakfasts (did I mention that no one likes the same breakfast?) for three humans, three canines and two felines, showers (just for the humans), the packing of lunches and the homework review,

“Did you pack your math?”

“Yes.”

“Spelling?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh no! It’s under my bed!”

This is an actual answer I’ve received, “Oh no! It’s under my bed!” Really? Which part of this has alarmed her so? That she forgot to pack the homework? That it’s under the bed? Or perhaps it’s that it somehow escaped her mind that she had shoved it under her bed? I haven’t even addressed the issue of WHY the homework is under the bed. And I don’t think I will. There are some things I just don’t need to know.

Off to the bus stop they go. I watch from the window until the bus comes (don’t judge, what if some lunatic comes by and tries to take them before the bus arrives? I could be out that window in five seconds flat and make him wish he were never born) and then start the second mainline of caffeine. Because the next three hours will consist of cleaning. All my most hated chores are represented: dusting, vacuuming, scrubbing bathrooms, washing floors and hanging laundry. There are probably more, but my brain has blocked them out to protect myself from the trauma.

With that behind me, I finally find a few minutes to work out. I’m not a woman who looks forward to exercise. I don’t put it in the category of “me time.” I have never, not once ever, experienced an endorphin rush. I just get super sweaty, winded and sore and then I smell really bad.

However, I am a woman who looks forward to eating. And also fitting in my clothes. Those two things bring me great joy, so the exercise allows me those joys. Through the years, I’ve found some workout styles that I do like. I don’t look forward to them, but I also don’t stare at the clock every 22 seconds and wonder how much longer I can live through this hell, so that’s a plus.

Work out complete, showered and no longer smelly, I now have about three hours to balance the checkbook, pay bills, make any necessary appointments and phone calls, clean up my email inbox, food shop, run errands and eat lunch. And then it’s over. My alone time concludes for the week and I head over to pick up the kids.

The after-school cycle is probably pretty similar in a lot of houses. Here, we unpack lunch boxes, start homework, change out of uniforms, prep tomorrow’s lunch and uniforms, and then it’s dinnertime. On my day off, we have pizza. Like clockwork. As a matter of fact, a couple of weeks ago we were going to have steak instead and the in-house OCD-o-meter started spinning out of control. There were actual tears. So, pizza it is.

Remember though, we have a child with celiac disease. Even though many local pizza places now offer gluten-free pies, we cannot partake of this gloriously easy option. Unlike those with a gluten intolerance, celiac sufferers cannot eat things that have been prepared on the same surface as gluten-containing items. Therefore, no gluten free pizza, cooked in the same oven as the regular pies, for us. It’s homemade, from scratch. And no matter how many times I’ve made it, it comes out different every time. Every. Single. Time.

Almost always, my pizza pleases the masses. Yet there are those times when it seems I’m raising future food critics:

“There’s something different. Have you switched the brand of cheese?”

“What is that I’m tasting in the crust? It’s that what’s making it a little crumbly?”

“I guess you ran out of time to puree the tomatoes before making the sauce?”

Next week, I swear, I’m cooking a freaking steak.

The icing on my day-off cake is that I always overdo it when I work out and by post-dinner cleanup, I’m waddling around like a pregnant woman.

Stretching helps ease the discomfort quite a bit. Another good choice is a homeopathic remedy. I like Arnica Montana, in pill or cream form. According to Native Remedies, “Filipendula almaria is another herb that has been used for centuries by herbalists to treat pain.”

Massage makes everything better and when combined with an essential oil rub, you get double the benefit. Make your own, very simply.

Sore muscle rub

2 tablespoons oil (olive, coconut, sunflower, grapeseed, almond, etc.)
3 drops each: essential oil lavender, eucalyptus and rosemary

Mix together until well blended. Gently rub on sore muscles. Or make your husband do it. After all, it’s your day off.

Feel free to complain to me about your “day off” at laurie@riverheadlocal.com.

Laurie Nigro, a mother of two, is passionate about natural living. Laurie resides in downtown Riverhead and is co-founder of the River and Roots Community Garden on West Main Street. Contact her by email to laurie@riverheadlocal.com.