I was blowing my hair out the other morning - YES! On a weekday! - when I thought to myself, "Why did it take me ten years to realize I could take the time to do this once in a while?" Why had I spent so many years shoving my hair under a Yankee hat? And to go even further, why did I feel guilty about sitting down and reading a book for half an hour or making myself a lunch that didn't consist of grilled cheese crust and leftover apple slices? I realized that for the last decade I had been living like a second class citizen in this country that is my own home.
To benefit those of you forming your own domestic principalities, I have put together a list of those things, by your mere existence as the head of your family, that you are entitled to. Demanding them all may be too much for you right now, but eventually attaining them all should be the norm for all stay-at-home parents.
Article I
The right to a shower every twenty-four hours. You might be too exhausted to actually haul yourself out of bed, remove your clothing and step under running water. Perhaps you prefer to sleep an extra twenty minutes and you don't think you smell that bad, but the right to wash off your thighs the applesauce that has seeped through your yoga pants, or been gently massaged through your hair by chubby baby fingers, is inalienable. Exercising it, optional.
Article II
The right to wear (at least) one thing each day that makes you feel any of the following: cute, sexy, attractive, young, hip, strong, sassy or put-together. As Elizabeth Berg wrote, "She wore a sweatshirt and jeans and lovely pearl studs in her ears -- dressing up a bit of herself so she wouldn't forget how, no doubt. You will see this in mothers of small children: they dress up from the neck up. Everything else is in danger of peanut butter." Don't endanger your best duds, but give yourself five minutes to throw on some lipstick, or that t-shirt from college that makes you laugh. It doesn't matter how it makes you look, it matters how it makes you feel - like something other than a peanut butter sandwich-making, Lego-building, carpool-driving autobot.
Article III
The right to exercise for thirty minutes a day. Many women I know feel too guilty taking time to squeeze fitness into an already packed day. Guess what? Doing so will actually make you a better mother. As Phil Dunphy puts it "She has to run everyday or she goes crazy. She's like a border collie." Consider getting a little movement to be the adult version of "shaking your sillies out". I find it much easier to deal with a bowl of cereal being spilt on the floor, splattering milk everywhere, and Little Man walking through it, obliviously tracking wet Cheerios through the house, when I have a nice shot of endorphins running through my system. It's like your body's homemade wine - it takes the edge off of things. So plop your kids on the couch with your ipad so you can do a workout tape. Raising children is a physical challenge, so shouldn't you be training?
Article IV
The right to eat one meal a day sitting down, preferably, with utensils. I think one meal of three is a realistic goal. I laugh at magazines telling me I should be sitting down and savoring my food at each and every meal. While I'm not stuffing a McRib down my throat in the van, I am very often eating a veggie wrap while I help with homework or do a jigsaw puzzle. I draw the line at dinner though. Requests during our evening meal are met with, "When I'm done eating", as I am usually dining sans husband, but when he is home, he runs all interference so I can eat food that hasn't gone stone cold. Choose whichever meal is easiest for you to get some peace. If your kids nap, guess what? That's your lunch hour. Punch out and eat.
Article V
The right to thirty minutes of leisure time a day. Do you have half of The Bachelor finale you still haven't watched since during last night's viewing your husband started yelling about his "testicles actually shrinking back up into his body", or some such nonsense? Do you have a book you've been dying to read, but can't make any dent in during the nine minutes you crack it open before bed each night, only to fall asleep with it on your face? Well here's your permission to enjoy these pastimes freely. I'll let you in on a little secret. At work in an office, most people put in a solid four to five hours of labor, tops. There is plenty of internet surfing, online shopping, office gossip and coffee breaks to break up the day. And let's not even talk about commute time. It's no wonder H got through four season of Mad Men in less than a month. Your day is roughly twelve hours long, if not longer. One episode of Hoarders is only forty minutes on the DVR, go for it.
Article VI
The right to have an uninterrupted conversation. We have all had a friend over, or been on the phone, only to have our chat repeatedly brought to a halt with, "Watch me roll my tongue!", "Where are my fairy wings?", or "Can you untie this knot, please?" All of these attempted interjections can be handily turned away with a furrowed brow and a pursed lip. My children call it my "beaver face". They know, unless they are bleeding, or something is on fire, they need to wait. I do not believe children should be seen and not heard, but I firmly believe they do not always need to be heard the second their impulse-driven brains demand it. Mommy needs to dissect the ending of the last Jodi Picoult novel with her pal while you play on the swings. Cram it for two minutes.
Go practice in the mirror until you find a suitable facial expression.
Article VII
The right to have the weekend feel different from the work week. Do ask your significant other to go to the office on Saturday? No, so why should all forty-eight hours of the weekend feel like the rest of the week for you? Along with general splitting of childcare and household work, ask your other to pick up a chore you are just sick and tired of, say, preparing lunch or unloading the dishwasher. I even went as far to declare "I don't do shit on weekends", relegating H to diaper duty (or doody). Just do something, anything to make it feel not like Tuesday every damn day.
Article VIII
The right to six hours of sleep. OK, I realize for some of you that seems an unattainable dream, like getting your old boobs back, but at some point, the baby will stop nursing or the stomach bug will pass. At that point, you have the right to kick any unwanted offspring out of your bed. There is a reason they use sleep-deprivation as a method of torture - you will lose your ever-loving mind without rest. Do not feel guilty about it. Limiting the time they keep you awake limits the time you spend screaming the next day. Simple cause and effect.
So let this be the dawn of a new day in your land! Stand up for your rights! A well-rested, well-fed, well-reality TV'd ruler makes for a happy kingdom.
Treat yourself like the queen you are.
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