Ramblings of a Stay-at-Home-Mom

I scrubbed dried shit out of my dog’s butthole fur for over an hour yesterday. I’m telling you this because nobody noticed (except for my dog, I’m sure). Not my daughters, not my mailman, certainly not my husband. Nobody ever notices.

It may seem as though I'm asking for accolades for my daily mom duties; acknowledgment that we do in fact get shit done. And that would be correct. Maybe I'm tired of my metaphorical stay-at-home-mom desk being absent of those fancy glass awards they hand out at "real" jobs: 'Most Innovative 2021.' 'Best in Sales 2004.' I know it doesn't take much brain-power to pull out my dog's dingleberries, but a simple, "Hey, the dog's butt is looking particularly clean today" would go a long way for me.

Matt and my brother-in-law went to the Ryder Cup last weekend, because, well, of course they did. And per usual, I planned a weekend of fun activities for the kids and my nephews that included pumpkin painting and playgrounds and destroying my house.

On Saturday, we loaded everyone into my car and headed to the pumpkin patch. My littlest nephew gave us some problems that day. He was the whiniest he's ever been and we couldn't seem to figure out the cause. I assumed maybe he's just not a pumpkin spice and everything autumn kind of dude, but fast forward to Sunday and a call from my sister: he's got the dreaded Hand, Foot, and Mouth virus.

Most people would say, "Awww, poor little guy. Hope he feels better soon." But most people aren't stay-at-home-moms with a Las Vegas trip coming up in ten days that they've planned with their best friends for a year now. Most people also don't have OCD.

This has consumed me. I've been researching Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease like a mad scientist. I think I may have found the end of the Internet. And in case you're wondering my level of exposure, my nephew clung to me all weekend like a drooling koala bear. I kissed those fat, slobbery cheeks and stuck french fries in his chubby wet hands. I was as exposed as a Vegas showgirl. (How DO they get those booby tassels to swing like that? Fascinating.)

The adult cases I've found of HFM disease sound horrifying: hands and feet so painful that one cannot even walk. How am I supposed to stumble around Vegas in my new size twelve, wide-width stilettos? Can I crawl from slot machine to slot machine? And will my blistered fingers be able to hit max bet at a fast enough pace to blow through my budget on night one?

I know that I make this sound light-hearted and silly, but OCD is devastating: it's not the casual, "Oh, I'm so OCD about little Benjamin's lego bin" or Susie making her hangers all face in the same direction. It's an actual chemical imbalance; a monster in my mind.

Last month I feared touching my daughter's tiny frog aquarium (thanks to my mom for that disgusting gift) because one of the little dwarf frogs had a white cotton substance growing from its body. After much research, I came to a horrific realization: there was a fungus among us. 

Someone asked me the other day what it felt like to have OCD. I’ve been thinking about that question. Simply put, it’s like having one of those old CD Walkmans jammed inside your brain and the same horrible song just keeps skipping and skipping. And it's not a delightful Britney Spears' ditty. It's Nickelback. Or Creed. 

There’s no reprieve; just the same thought over and over on repeat. It’s utter exhaustion; a marathon in my brain with no finish line in sight.

I've coped through it all these years with counseling, Prozac, humor, and buttercream icing. Prior to my hand-foot-mouth exposure of all exposures, I went on one of my super smart crash diets to fit into my pre-selected Vegas wardrobe that somehow shrunk in my closet these past few months. Ten days with no carbs and I successfully dropped a quick five pounds. Here I come Vegas: mama is ready to rummmble.

And then I popped into a bakery. I was in Springfield yesterday morning purchasing a cookie cake for our neighbors who are moving, and I convinced myself I had enough self-control to simply buy this one dessert and leave (hahahahahahahaha). 

I walked into that cake shop, and I swear the smell of that buttercream icing had me floating over to the display counter like some magic potion. 

The lady at the register asked me if I wanted anything written in icing on my second cookie cake, and I paused for a moment until deciding that "Best Dingleberry Picker 2021" simply wouldn't fit.

I've always wanted to be a writer. But I'm not writing. Instead, I'm sitting in a parking lot and staring at a tree while eating my feelings and paranoias and inadequacies; a sugary cure for my OCD and stay-at-home-mom exhaustion. Wait. Is that a blister that just appeared on the palm of my hand? False alarm. It's a red sprinkle.

I went home and cleaned up the kitchen. I put dinner in the oven and changed the laundry for the third time that day. I disinfected the toys in case Barbie contracted Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease, and I looked around to see that despite my efforts, the house still looked the exact same. I then finished that damn cookie cake like the champion I am, and I casually tossed the empty container in the trash can. I didn't even bother hiding the evidence. It's not like anyone would notice.

Cookies and Grace

I wore my daughter's disposable mask the other day without realizing she had previously used it to blow her nose. That was a first. 

I feel like we've all had a year of 'firsts', if you will: the first time wearing a mask to a restaurant; the first time having my temperature checked to enter a building; the first time calling poison control on myself.

This one is actually a very simple story----it could happen to the best of us (it did; I'm the best). My mom had sugar cookies cooling on a cookie rack and next to them were five different tubes of gel icing. 

I selected the neon pink tube for my mostly cooled cookie, and since no one was watching and therefore could not judge me, I used the entire tube of icing. The first bite was kind of funky. The second and third were no better. I considered tossing the last bite into the trash, but I don't quit on cookies because they've never quit on me.  

Ok, that was officially the grossest icing I've ever consumed.  I hurried to the other room to complain to my mom about her bogus Betty Crocker purchase, but she took the empty tube from my hand and shook her head in confusion.  "This is food coloring." 

Dammit. 

I know that food coloring is food grade and therefore edible, of course, but I ate the whole concentrated tube, ya'll. My mouth started feeling numb. It was also hot pink. My tongue looked like a Lisa Frank eraser. 

The lady with Poison Control was gracious but confused. "So you took just one bite of the cookie with food coloring, right?" she asked. 

"Well, no, mam, I pushed through and finished it."

She humored me for a moment before telling me I would be fine. I think about it now and laugh. It's funny. I'm funny. I'm also a binge eater. That's not always so funny.

My life feels out of control sometimes. It's felt pretty much out of control this entire pandemic, and so I cope with carbohydrates. I was so proud of myself last winter (pre-pandemic). I ate a bunch of nasty, dry protein bars and tasteless health shakes and found myself 32 pounds lighter. My clothes fit like they were supposed to fit. I felt more confident. I developed a bit of a peacock strut. 

Then the whole world went to shit. This past year was incredibly trying for my mental health: fear, anxiety, boredom, sadness, uncertainty. Suddenly, egg whites weren't cutting it.

Not surprisingly, I've put back on almost all that weight I worked so hard to lose. I did attempt a juice cleanse a couple of weeks ago, but one day into the diet, I remembered that pizza existed, and so there went that overpriced idea. 

Each day I tell myself that THIS is the day I will start eating better, yet each day comes and goes and makes a liar out of me. That motivation I had last winter is all but gone, and here I am, stuck in this caloric rut with a fading hot pink tongue and a pile of dirty laundry. 

The days can be so impossibly long as a stay-at-home mom. They're even longer in quarantine. 

My father tested positive for Covid back in November (he had a mild case, thank God), but since we'd all been exposed, the kids were stuck remote learning for a fourteen day quarantine. Even two negative tests were not enough to free us. Not leaving the house for two straight weeks made me do some crazy sh*t. Case in point:

Luckily for you, our quarantine was up before I had the chance to recreate her red catsuit video. Meow. 

My daughter came home from school the other day and asked me if it was always going to be like this--- the wearing masks and keeping a distance from her friends at school. I could see a genuine sadness in her eyes, and my heart broke for her.  For once, I wasn't going to tell her to suck it up. I didn't remind her how good we've got it; that we're still incredibly blessed. She knows all that. But this is her reality. She's allowed to mourn it. 

"It's not supposed to be like this," I told her. "And I'm sorry."

We're living in some unprecedented times, and I'm thinking we all just need to give each other a little bit of grace. Social media has become such an ugly place for people to pass judgement and advance their crazy conspiracy theories that I actually preferred the days of the pyramid schemes. Why, yes, Susan, I will buy that non-FDA approved magic potion syrup if you would just stop posting articles of the benefits of wearing three masks at the beach.

I get why the world has been so focused on health during this pandemic, because, DUH, it's a pandemic. This virus attacks the respiratory system. It attacks the vascular system. It wrecks the body, but I also feel the need to say this: it's attacking our mental health, as well. There's this thought that if we talk about the consequences of this pandemic on our actual sanity, then we're minimizing the seriousness of this virus. But I don't find that to be true; the two are not mutually exclusive. 

We are able to fear this virus and recognize its devastation while still mourning the small, silly things in our lives that have been taken away or put on pause. Is that selfish of us? Sure. But we're human beings. We all feel it, right?

I miss concerts. I miss going to college basketball games and dripping nacho cheese on my black leggings while the crowd roars around me. I miss getting all up in my friends' faces after one too many glasses of wine. I mostly just miss all the people. 

 

Hippos and Hernias

I'm trying to be more present in the present. Did I quote that correctly? All the sentimental, overbearing 'mom groups' on Facebook (I can almost smell the essential oils  through my computer screen) write something to that effect in one of their fancy social media fonts: that being present in the moment is what matters most to your children. Although I'm generally not one to take advice unless it's from Britney Spears or one of those Dove chocolate wrappers, that quote really resonated with me. 

This pandemic has afforded me eight months of complete togetherness with my children and husband, yet I haven't fully taken advantage of this unexpected opportunity. I'll be the first to admit that I spend too much time on my phone. And on Netflix. And in the pantry. Currently, my patience is the only thin thing about me. 

My children do a lot of talking, and I haven't been the greatest listener. Like many I know, I've struggled through 2020. 

And then, as if times were not crazy enough, my husband, the same man who wouldn't notice if I turned vegan and grew a tail (the odds of either of these things happening are about the same), discovered a small lump on Greta's abdomen. After a terrifying visit to the pediatrician, it's been determined she has an epigastric hernia which needs surgically repaired. We met with a specialist in Springfield, and because my children are overachievers (#humblebrag), it's now been determined that she has not one, but TWO hernias! 

How did I miss this? How did my husband discover her hernia when he can't even find his golf clubs? I'm usually the most hyperaware person on the planet, and I never noticed this bump?! I thought back to that sappy quote about being present in the present, and I let the mom guilt wash over me. From here on out, I was going to be a super-involved mother! I thought of the simplest way to do that: I would show more interest in my children and their hobbies; spend more time doing what they want to do. 

"I want to wear one of those inflatable costumes for Halloween this year," Millie told me one September day. "Like one of those dinosaurs or sumo wrestlers." 

Hey, I thought! That's something we can do together!! We could trick-or-treat as an inflatable family! I immediately (and somewhat impulsively) went on Amazon and clicked BUY NOW when I saw 'Ruby the Inflatable Hippo' suit! I'd be the hipp-oest mom around! 

The costume arrived promptly at 4 o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. Matt was golfing in Effingham with some friends, the kids were with their grandma, and I was enjoying a few rare moments of silence before the ladies picked me up to meet the husbands for dinner in Effingham. It was an unusually warm September day, but I figured I would still break out the new fall wardrobe. I had just pulled the turtleneck over my head and was putting the finishing touches on my makeup when I heard the doorbell ring. I tore into the Amazon box and laid out the monstrous costume across the foyer. Tossing the instruction pamphlet to the side, I grabbed some fresh AA batteries and stepped into the hippo.

A wire battery pack leads to the inflatable fan which causes Ruby to rise. In hindsight, that battery pack should be left on the outside of the costume, but who reads instructions, right? I pressed the switch on the battery pack, tucked it into my pants, and shoved my arms through the sleeves. WHOOOOoooooooshhhh!!! The costume slowly started to inflate around me. Within seconds, I was eight feet tall and three feet wide. Pretty impressed with myself, I grabbed my phone off the counter and took a series of selfies to later share with my kids. I danced around a bit. I spun. 

Somehow I didn’t anticipate the sweat. Five minutes in that costume and I was melting. The hotter I became, the more claustrophobic I felt. Time to get out of this thing, I thought. So I reached around to unzip myself, only to find that while inflated, my arms were about as useful as those of a T-rex. I couldn’t reach the zipper. 

Alright, well I'll just have to power down the battery pack, I decided. Welp, at that current moment, the battery pack had fallen from my waistband and was dangling down between my legs, which also happened to be inside the hippo suit. 

I don’t do well with problem solving. I panic. I cry. Sometimes I eat entire cakes. Here I was, stuck inside a hippopotamus costume in 80 degree temperatures, all while wearing a turtleneck sweater. I could feel the walls closing in. I FaceTimed my mom. Turns out, she sucks at problem solving, too. “Walk down the street to your sister’s house,” she suggested. Seriously, mother? Walk two blocks in a hippo suit in broad daylight? 

Next up, I FaceTimed the hubby. This one was going to be a bit harder to explain, mostly considering the fact I had not told him I purchased an eight foot hippo costume. He, also, was not helpful.

I found this screenshot on his phone

I needed to pop this hippo. I considered running full force into a wall, but my top speed clocks in at about 4 miles per hour, and Ruby the Hippo is surprisingly well-made. 

Panic set in. It was now 4:30, and the ladies would be arriving in thirty minutes to pick me up. I decide to call my friend, Andrea, the driver, and ask her to step on the gas. Even at seven months pregnant, Andrea's stomach resembles mine after half of a McChicken, so I figure, what the hell if she sees me in this? I normally look like a hippo next to her anyways. 

So now I'm standing at the window, watching for her car to pull up, when she texts and tells me that she’s stuck in a construction zone and it’s going to be a bit longer.  “I don’t have a bit longer, Andrea,” I yell into my sauna suit. 

Then, in a moment of clarity, I see my neighbors step out into the woods between our house. This is my chance. I suck up my pride and stuff myself through the door. They immediately turn and stare at me, confused looks on their faces like they've never seen a hippopotamus in a ballet tutu. I then see that their adult daughter and boyfriend are also with them, and they’re taking fall pictures. Trying to remain incognito, I step back and resqueeze myself through the door. I'll wait until I'm a few feet thinner to meet her new boyfriend. 

Andrea finally arrives. She unzips me in a flourish, but then confesses she was worried I was naked underneath. Ha! No way! That would make me some kind of weirdo!

I tucked Ruby into the back of my closet, unstuck my matted hair from my sweaty head, and headed to dinner. I figured all this pain and embarrassment would be worth it when I surprised Millie with my Halloween idea. 

The day after #hippogate, I'm back on Amazon and searching inflatables for Millie when she plops down next to me on the couch. I hand her my iPad and tell her to pick out whichever inflatable costume she wants to be. 

"Um, mom, I'm going as a vampire." 

Bicycles and Baddies

So there I am, out for my evening bike ride, when a beat-up truck full of teenagers comes rumbling through the neighborhood. I obligingly pedal my mom-bike and toddler-trailer-pull-along to the side of the road, when they roll down their windows and start shouting at me. The only word I could really make out was "baddie" (Urban Dictionary: a baddie is a girl who is extremely put together and looks phenomenal even on her off days).

I chuckled to myself. I've always loved a nice compliment. Then I glanced down at my attire: a Mickey Mouse t-shirt and Adidas mesh shorts that touched the tops of my knees, finished off with rubber Croc sandals. Huh, well that's strange. Why would anyone in their right mind call me a "baddie" in this get-up? So I pondered for a moment. Did I mishear that cat-call? Did the sound of the muffler distort their adolescent yells? And if so, what word sounds similar to baddie? 

OMG. 

Did those assholes call me a FATTY?!?

I watched as the truck drove farther down the street until it parked in a neighbor's driveway. I continued pedaling through the neighborhood, contemplating my next move. I could hear them out back at their friend's pool, and I thought maybe I could just pop my head over the fence with a cool, "Hey bros! Just wanted to clear something up...did you guys refer to me as a fatty or a baddie? If it was the latter, then continue on with your TikTok!"

I pulled into my driveway and presented the situation to my husband. "What in the hell is a baddie?" he asked. (Keep in my mind my husband is nearing forty and is nowhere near as hip as myself, so I read him the definition.)  He stared at me for a moment and then replied, "Yeah, they definitely didn't call you a baddie."

I rode around the neighborhood on my geriatric bike seat, fuming.  Just wait till you dweebs get married and your wife bears two children for you. Let's see how much of a baddie she is then, huh boys? That youthful metabolism will slow down, just you wait! And then throw a pandemic into the mix!! See how good she'll look in those stupid booty shorts then!

I took the higher road (not literally, because I was out of breath from pedaling so hard), and left the boys to their pool party. Pick your battles, Stefanie. Also, pizza had just arrived.

If you've ever followed my blog, you'll know that my two biggest struggles are OCD and my weight. This pandemic has not been kind to either. For the most part, I've avoided the dreaded COVID weight gain (although not according to those pimple-face fools), but the past three weeks have been an exception. I finally scheduled a date for Greta's tonsillectomy. Surgery of any kind is a huge trigger for my OCD---I can't even talk about it without tearing up. An image of my child intubated on an operating table makes my heart race and my palms sweat. That image strikes fear in my body, and so my super healthy coping mechanism is to stockpile food like a squirrel in the winter.

Thankfully, the doctor performing the surgery is a close friend (lucky him!), and although I couldn't convince him to FaceTime me during the surgery so I could double-check his work with all the YouTube videos I viewed, I knew she was in the safest of hands. (Shoutout to Dr. Ulis!) 

The tonsils are out, and Greta is recovering. We stayed one night in the hospital and are now back home, resting. (This is super challenging because I'm such a fierce opponent of screen time.) 

I took Millie to the local park the other night so we could spend some much needed time together, and I'm on the little mouse exercise wheel and I'm back in my Mickey shirt and Croc sandals when I hear a deep rumbling in the parking lot. I kid you not, that same truck of teeny-boppers peeled into that parking lot and off they went to the basketball court, laughing and cussing. This was my chance. I could confront them and clear this all up once and for all. But Matt had tacos waiting at home. 

So off I walked. Like a baddie. 

The Quarantine Scene

Things Millie has learned since studying at The University of Mama: Minecraft counts towards her architecture degree, pizza Lunchables cover our home-ec hour, and sadly, the Tooth Fairy is actually dressed in stained sweatpants and a Britney Spears t-shirt.

I feel pretty okay with the fact that Millie made it to her eighth birthday before her first bit of childhood magic disappeared. I've been pretty much waiting for it to happen, like "Come on, kid, you can kill me at Clue, but you haven't figured out that a fairy couldn't make it past our advanced security system?"

I didn't expect for her to take it so hard. My sister ruined everything good for me way before I turned eight.

"So you're the one who leaves the money?" she sobbed into her Pizza Pocket home-ec project.

"Yes, Mills, and I do it because I love you so much! More than any fairy ever could!"

"Wait, so it was also you who left the $5 Target rebate card under my pillow?"

To my credit, I talked my way out of revealing the truth about all the other magical creatures, so for now, I still don't get any thanks for all the overpriced crap under the Christmas tree. Awesome.

This quarantine is taking a toll on all of us,  I'm afraid. We're now a month in, and I asked my husband if he wanted to check into a local hotel just so he didn't go into shock from being home this often.

The elephant in the room (besides me in gray loungewear) has been my OCD.  I hardly made it through the 2011 Listeria  Cantaloupe outbreak with my sanity intact, and the 2017-2018 flu season just about wrecked me. I've been vaccinated for rabies, for goodness' sake, so it's no surprise that we've all been waiting for this pandemic to take over what's left of my logic and reason.

Our friend, Nick, in Switzerland, summed it up the best. He texted Matt, kindly asking about my mental well-being. Matt told him that I was doing surprisingly well, and Nick responded with, "Well, she's been preparing her whole life for this."

Unlike my affinity to Starburst Jellybeans, my OCD has been fairly well contained during this pandemic. I keep waiting for it to hit; for a trigger to send me spiraling into the madness of my mental illness, but perhaps I'm already there. I'm taking some extra precautions, but I've come to realize that most of the measures put in place have simply been my life for the past two decades. This IS my normal. I've been washing my hands 47 times a day since 1995. I've studied cross-contamination more than most restaurant owners.

I read an interesting article the other day highlighting how this pandemic gives others a glimpse into the mind of an OCD sufferer. This anxiety is simply my life. You all think wearing latex gloves at the ATM is a new thing? HA!

I'm very aware of how serious of a situation our world is in. I watch the Coronavirus Task Force briefings every night, and I, like most mothers I know, stay up late worrying about my family and the economy and the health of those around me. If OCD has taught me anything, however, it's that very little of this is in our control. Now don't get me wrong---I'm not trivializing all the things we should be doing to keep this virus at bay, but I also don't need Sally from finance to explain viruses to me via a Facebook post.

And for the love of all things social media, stop telling people they have to bleach their bag of carrots before bringing them inside! You go ahead and leave your ice cream on the porch for three days before touching it, but don't grocery-shame the rest of us!

Sorry for the rant, but between Pinterest Patty telling me how to color coordinate my non-existent homeschool chart while baking seventeen-ingredient glitter Easter bunny cupcakes all while telling me not to go to the store, how am I supposed to find the time to binge-watch Ozarks Season 3, Patricia? Get outta here with that crap!

I was at the liquor store the other day, masked up and needing some Champagne after an intense twenty-minute homeschooling math session (sorry, Millie, I don't know how many apples Johnny has left in his basket. I majored in English at a mediocre state school).

I tried to read the labels on the Champagne bottles but my eyeglasses kept fogging up from my homemade surgical mask, and since I'm not supposed to touch my face to fix my mask, I simply opened the door to the refrigerated wine and just grabbed blindly.

Of course I chose wrongly, and I ended up drinking some cheap wedding bubbly next to a fire with my husband. And it was perfect.

For once in my anxiety-ridden life, I'm giving it God. I'll wear the face mask to the grocery store, I'll wash my hands before eating, and I'll do my best to protect my family, but I'm so dog-tired of worrying.

Sleep 101

Since 'clean eating' is all the rage these days, I thought I would join in on the trend.

WHAT A TIME TO BE ALIVE!!!!

Yesterday was a strange day for me. I drank five cups of coffee, folded two towels while Greta napped for six minutes, and ordered Cheeto finger gloves from Amazon. So yeah, never mind--- it was actually a pretty typical day.

I've never experienced this little sleep in my life.  Greta is up every two to three hours for absolutely no understandable reason. Then there's Millie with her strange interests. First it was sharks; next the Titanic. Now, since discovering her Uncle Craig is a lawyer, she's into last wills and testaments. I'm drinking scalding hot coffee as fast as it will go down while Greta throws a sleep-deprived tantrum and Millie keeps asking if she can have my makeup when I die. "Sure!" I shout. "Take it all!"

Annoyingly, my sister's son, Will, sleeps more than the two-toed sloth.  I look wistfully out my window down the street to her house and wonder what it's like to be her in that big fluffy bed, watching 90 Day Fiancé, when a text pings my phone. It's from the well-rested sister. "William's been napping for almost four hours. Do you think I should wake him up? If he naps too much longer, he'll only sleep for thirteen hours tonight." (insert middle finger emoji)

The husband is out of town. Again. Although this gives me the advantage of stretching out in bed like an overweight starfish, it also makes menial tasks seem impossible.

My glorious shower at home could house a hippopotamus, yet here I am, stuffed in the communal showers at the YMCA so that I can lather my head in peace while Greta plays in their nursery.  Minus the beer bottle next to my loofah, it's like I'm back in the college dorms again.

"Shower while she naps," you're probably thinking. Oh, but dear reader, that wouldn't give the water enough time to get warm.

Fed up, we finally went and had a sleep study performed. That was fun!!!!

The results were pretty much what I expected.  She has sleep-disordered breathing patterns and would most likely benefit from a tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy. I know this seems like no big deal to you serotonin-balanced individuals, but the idea of my two-year-old going under the knife gives me cold sweats. I need time to think and prepare and up my Prozac and maybe even travel to Rome to pray at St. Peter's Basilica.  OCD thrives on uncertainty, and I don't like giving up control unless I can be 100% guaranteed of the results. My good friend Jeff will be her surgeon, so this gives me great comfort, but on the other hand, I'm not yet acquainted with the anesthesiologist or the nurse who will bring her slushies.  What if she has an allergy to blue raspberry?

So next up, we need to pick a date for the operation. While I'm leaning towards September 2027, my husband prefers this afternoon. Maybe I need to just bite the bullet and put it on the calendar. Or better yet, maybe I just need to sleep on it. (insert rolling on the floor laughing emoji)

Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall

"I'm Stefanie Hopkins, and I'm a stay-at-home-mom," I announce. Did my voice just waver? I think it totally just wavered.

I was introducing myself to the newest YMCA board members, and as everyone was giving their name and occupation (lawyer, financial advisor), I wracked my brain for the correct job title. Butt wiper? Netflix extraordinaire? "Hi, I'm Stefanie Hopkins, and I'm really good at spraying whip cream directly in my mouth from the can!"

I spend a good portion of my week defending myself to, well, myself. "I have the hardest job out there," I tell my husband. "You could never do what I do." I've always had the utmost respect for stay-at-home mamas, just as I have the utmost respect for women who work outside the home, yet when it comes to my own chosen lot in life, I feel unfulfilled and forgotten. I try and pride myself in raising my daughters to be kind, intelligent, Christian human beings, so why do my cheeks redden when it comes time to announce my career choice? All of a sudden, I get a bad case of inferiority.

My YMCA/WSOY  fitness and nutrition challenge ended a few weeks ago, and though I had every intention of blogging weekly about it, time got away from me (hello, hardest job in the world over here!!!)  For the first time since moving back from Europe, I started to feel good in my own body again.  I've dropped two pant sizes and gained part of an ab. I broke-up with the Cheesy Gordita Crunch. I tried a piece of kale. I can now lift a Kettlebell without thinking of kettle corn, kettle chips, or Ketel One vodka.  I even find myself humming as I restart the laundry for the third time.

So there I was, moving along so swimmingly (still in a one-piece, of course), when my voice went and wavered.  I went home that day and looked in the mirror and I saw thirty-three looking back at me---a whole lot of sun damage, frown lines, and an empty resume. I've been out of college for twelve years, yet my degree is still inside a dusty cardboard box alongside my fossilized baby teeth and participation trophies. I was going to write a book by now, but instead I'm browsing Amazon for sloth coffee mugs . I was supposed to be a columnist, but I spend my mornings reading the words of other writers. At the very least, I was going to keep up with this pitiful blog. Instead, I'm writing a couple paragraphs every few months and examining my face in a magnified mirror. So what did my reasonable self go and do with all these feelings? Take a walk? Submit a story? Hug my children?

Botox, baby. Yup, said I'd never do it, yet here I am: the Real Housewives of Long Creek. It's almost laughable, though I'm having trouble moving my face muscles at the moment. I won't eat canned vegetables for fear of botulism, but a doctor can inject it straight into my forehead?  Shut up and take my money!!!!

Well it's been two weeks: my wrinkles are diminished, but my inadequacies are not---funny how that happens. You can tell me that I'm working on all the wrong things, but I already know this. I'm lazy and vain, but I still have a fairly decent IQ (according to those online quizzes).  Instead of my frown lines, I should be smoothing out my diminished relationship with God and strengthening my marriage, but I always tend to go for the quick fixes. Just like how I know that exercising with the amazing  and encouraging Angela will leave me feeling healthy and renewed, I still habitually reach for the cream-filled donut instead. We humans are a puzzling breed.

My voice didn't waver at that YMCA meeting because of my job title.  I'm raising strong, bright little girls, and I should announce that like I'm a badass CEO. My voice wavers because I seek out things that don't bring me lasting joy. I'm doing my damnedest to fill myself up with emptiness, Casey's donuts, and Botulism Toxin Type A.

I may not receive a paycheck or an annual bonus, but I'm still contributing. My job may not require a bra or a briefcase, but I have the privilege of shaping little lives. I need to accept that there will always be a stigma attached to the stay-at-home-mom, and the best I can do is refuse to let myself do the attaching.