by Nikki Stoneroad

Created on: February 13, 2009

My morning begins with loading the dishwasher, loading the washing machine, and brewing a strong cup of coffee. It is clockwork, even on the weekends. Somehow when I wake up and look around, the same kitchen that was clean and organized before I went to bed is now overflowing with dishes, clothing, paper, and leftover food. Boy, those elves sure are busy at night. It seems that they have made a resort out of chaos. Using the wooden spoons to catapult themselves up onto the ceiling fan, take a spin, land on the kitchen table, turning over every glass in sight, skating their way off the edge, only to ride the Lazy Susan a few times around.

Then it is time to get the kids up for school, make breakfast, and create more dirty dishes. Once out the door, I get to take the laundry outside to hang to dry, gossip with the next door neighbor, and gripe about how hard my life is because I know that a pity party will ensue. I listen to how I am the hardest worker in the house, and I humbly agree.

After I check the washer for any loose change to add to my getaway fund, I fetch the mail, take out the trash, and take a walk before the sun has barely risen over the treetops. I daydream in detail about how I am going to save all my change to run away all by myself to a far away place with no dishes, laundry, and nondeserving families. I'll show them. They'll be begging for me to come crawling back, but the sound of the ocean will be way too loud for me to hear their desperate pleas.

Sometime around the crack of noon, I try to do some job work. Like calling clients, setting up appointments, and occassionally even getting dressed to leave the house. I usually can't find my shoes. It is not so fun when your children start wearing the same size as you. They also borrow your makeup, perfume, and jewelry. For some reason they think you owe them.

I get to make five meals a day. Two breakfasts, one lunch, and two dinners. My compensation is another load of dishes, a fight to the death over homework, and baths, and transporting all the neighborhood friends back and forth, all the while everyone else chats on Myspace or cranks Rockband up to about eleven, where I can't even hear myself think.

I could squeeze in a hot bath, but it would be limited to about two minutes. Seven people sharing one bathroom is not the heart's desire.

Late night rendezvous with my mop after everyone goes to bed follows. Not like it will ever stay clean. Everyone's radar sounds and instantly I am swamped with numerous pairs of feet walking through my wet, clean floors to use the bathroom , get a drink, and tell me they forgot something. Tell it to the elves.

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