When we were in Utah visiting my parents a few months ago, we drove by a Walmart and, apropos of nothing, my three-year-old son announced proudly, “That’s where my mom works!” I don’t know where that came from (kid hasn’t been to a Walmart in his life), and although it was probably just a random comment, it did make me wonder if he has any idea what I do all day while he’s at daycare.
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When my son was an infant, I had a thirty-minute office commute. When he was a toddler and I switched to working from home, I still had a fifteen-minute drive to daycare. For the two months my husband was out of work (”WAS”! HE GOT A JOB LAST WEEK!), my work day would blend right into my mom day because when the boys got home I’d still be sitting at my desk trying to eke out a few more moments of daylight productivity. When my son bursts in the door (his current bit is to announce loudly, “Hey Dad, where’s that nice lady who lives here?”), I just as often greet him with a hug as I do a “Just a minute, I’m almost done, no, you can’t sit on my lap, not right now, don’t touch that, stop, just a minute, JUST A MINUTE.”
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My husband had three job interviews last week, and although no official offers have been put on the table yet, let’s just pretend everyone thinks he’s as wonderful and accomplished as I do and that in the next few days he’ll have his pick of positions.

Aaaaahhhh. So that’s what it feels like to breathe again.
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I’ve read everything anyone anywhere has ever said about working from home.

“Create a dedicated office space!”

“Get dressed every day!”

“Take a shower!”

“Put on makeup!”

“Get out and talk to real adult people, even if it’s just the cashier at the Starbucks drive-thru!” (No offense to cashiers at Starbucks drive-thrus. You make the world go ’round.)

It’s funny that so many of these Helpful Tips are hygiene related (funny cuz it’s true) and that, together, they make us WAHMs out to be a bunch of unkempt cavewomen who, save for the civilizing grace of the revered drive-thru cashier (and her gift of caffeine), are assumed to be perpetually one eight-hour shift away from losing our ability to walk upright and speak in full sentences.
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I have a hard time letting people help me, but lately I’ve been fantasizing about what it would be like to have a personal assistant I could delegate all my less-than-desirable tasks to.

A basic list of responsibilities might look like this:
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