Rhymes with GAH. And BLAH. And WAAAAAH.
I'm none of those things.
When I was single and hungover, I stayed at home. When I was a grad student with a paper to write, I stayed at home. When I was sick in high school, I stayed at home.
These days, I do not stay at home, as much as I would sometimes like to. I go daily to the playground. I schlep Henry to music class. I schlep him even farther to swim class. I go to the library for "Baby Story Time." I walk the dog. I carry a baby-filled umbrella stroller up and down subway stairs to go to doctor appointments. I do long runs with a jogging stroller in preparation for a marathon.
I do not stay home.
Rain or shine.
In sickness and in health.
Look, I'm not complaining about not having to go to a full-time office job anymore. I'm thrilled to death -- positively tickled pink -- about being "home" with Henry. For real. I'm not asking for pity. I'm just asking not to be called a SAHM, like I am a countess from Downton Abbey with half a million servants dusting the floor before me as I walk, like so many Canadian curlers.
Single and hungover: Not my life.
Downton Abbey: Not my life.
Canadian curlers: Not my life.
This is my life. And I love it. But notice, I'm not at home:
|Photo credit: The Moo Cow's Crapberry|
Unless you thought I happened to have an indoor swimming pool in my home. Which I don't.