Working means:

1. When I get home and no one has loaded the dishwasher (best purchase I’ve made in years) or folded the clothes in the dryer or started dinner and I think “Why can’t one lazy fucker do anything around here?” and then I realize, that lazy fucker is me, and I’ve been gone all day.
2. When I try to decide what to cook for dinner, soup and sandwiches sounds like the perfect idea.
3. There is money in my purse! And I earned it! Yeah!
4. Happy Hour sounds like the best idea ever invented. If only they would deliver cocktails.
5. I spoke with another adult and they kinda sorta seemed interested in what I had to say.
6. I feel as if my hard work and my ideas on how to get a job done are worth something.

Today I carried boxes around and helped sort through them, moved furniture from this room to that room, worked in the yard and (my favorite) cleaned out a crawlspace. You didn’t know that crawlspaces needed cleaning out? Yes, they do. Now go clean yours. I’ll wait. Don’t forget to lay down a vapor barrier.

I have to work again tomorrow. I have been trying to get a few things done around here since I got home. The couch is beckoning. The bed is beckoning. The TV whispers, “Hey, turn me on and tune out for a little while. You deserve it.” I am afraid that I might fall asleep too early if I stop doing something productive.

Did I mention that I have money in my purse, and I earned it? Best part of the day. Plus, I can’t remember if I mentioned this, but Polly’s school is right across the street from the house I am working at so it’s really convenient. And this woman doesn’t think I am a nut for not knowing how to drive. She said as she gets older the less she wants to drive anywhere. Maybe if I age enough I’ll catch up with the “I don’t want to drive” trend.

Today’s sign that I am not the best mother in the world: I didn’t even know Easter was on Sunday until Polly mentioned it. I knew Easter was coming, I just forgot when. I hoped for a second that she had outgrown the egg coloring thing but then she started going on about dying the eggs and asking if she could have two friends spend the night to dye eggs with us. I don’t know why, but I have always hating the dying of the eggs. As often as I could I have passed this joyful ritual on to Alex. Alas, this year he has to work. I almost miss the days when I was a kid and any religious holiday meant going to church, that’s it. No candy, no eggs, no hunts, no baskets, no fun; just church to hear about whatever significant moment in Jesus’ life and back to your regularly scheduled hellish childhood. Oh yeah, and you’re going to hell, sinner.

When I worked as a baker Easter was a hell of a lot of baking and worst of all, hot cross buns. They’re nasty, they are time consuming, and worst of all, crossing them with a pastry bag is carpal tunnel inducing. I do not miss Easter in a busy bakery.

Boycott Hot Cross Buns! Some overworked underpaid baker out there will thank you.