by Lindsay Horvath

Created on: February 02, 2009

I can't count the number of times I've said to my husband, "I wish you could just spend one day in my shoes-just one!" This comment often comes in the middle of a friendly debate about which one of us works harder, or follows an innocent question from his naive lips, such as "So, what did you do all day?" As if the mothering of one small child is a piece of cake. When I try to actually picture him doing my job, all day long with no help, I find myself snickering in my head. He'd never make it. No way. The man would be knocked out before noon.

Don't get me wrong. My husband is a good man, a hard worker, and a kind and caring father. He is a good provider and I know I am fortunate to have the choice to stay home with our son. But my husband, like many others, seriously underestimates the amount of work and multi-tasking that goes into my typical day...and how exhausting said day can be, even under the best of circumstances. It usually goes something like this.

7:30 am: I wake up, thanks to my internal "mommy clock", which never lets me sleep longer than my son's usual rise-and-shine time. I quickly have a peek at the video monitor to determine if he's sleeping, awake but not talking yet, or awake and jabbering and I've just slept right through it. On a lucky day, he's still asleep and I quickly rush downstairs to get as much done as I can. At least, this is the vision in my head. If I'm able to feed the dog and get a few swallows of coffee in before my little one starts calling "MAMA!" it's a typical day. If I manage to throw a load of laundry in, I feel like I'm ahead of the game.

7:45 am: I head upstairs to my son Gabe's room. I relish opening the door to his little cherub face and crazy hair; his sickly-sweet binky breath and the way in which he systematically hands me each stuffed animal before reaching his arms up to me. I quickly change his diaper and we head downstairs for some "milky".

8:00 am: The only peaceful moment of the day: my son and I squeeze into the armchair, and he watches Sesame Street and drinks "milky" while I check my email and drink my coffee. This morning routine can last for 15 minutes or an hour, depending on what we needs to be done on any given day. Somewhere during this time, my husband rolls out of bed and leisurely makes his way out the door after kissing us good-bye. His last image is of his pajama-clad wife and son, peacefully chilling in a clean house, seemingly doing nothing.

9 am: I reluctantly drag myself to the kitchen to make

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