How Has Being a SAHM Prepared You for This Job (and Why Should We Hire a Momstrocity Like You) ?

I've had it up to here with the shpilkes. Call me a meshugine with a bad case of the mishigas. While I'm at it, I admit, I've got a massive pisk. Not bad Yiddish for a goyim, eh?

What I mean is, my hard drive crashed. I've been away from blogging too long. A mere 24 hours without a post has me realizing that I'm completely addicted.

There's nothing like venting, kvetching and coming clean confessional style on such a public forum. I think all bloggers agree that receiving comments is one of the most validating aspects of blogging. I loves me some comments, a mom blogger recently said during de-lurk-ness. Right on.

So, as I get back into my blog, my kindergartner who should be racking up REMs for a fresh start at school tomorrow is bouncing on my bed wearing a Power Ranger face mask. My daughter, who also should be deep into snoozeville is cramming a whore of Baby Bratz doll into a decorative Asian lock box from Pier One Imports.

Good girl, Pigtails. Ho lookin' Baby Bratz dolls with skimpy diaper covers that look more like Frederick's of Hollywood thongs than bloomers SHOULD be locked away in black cryptic boxes.

So I'm back. Hopefully my laptop won't crap out on me again. If I had the energy I'd spill my guts right now about my eldest son purposefully hitting me and kicking me in the past 48 hours. That boy needs to learn some respect.

Also, I'm reluctantly flirting with looking for a full-time newsroom job, which would mean placing my two youngest kids in full-time child care. "Placing" sounds so cold. Like placing a down-payment on a home. Or placing an ailing parent in a nursing home. The whole thing feels cold. Against every thing I want for my children.

Qualifications accrued in the nearly six years I've domestically slacked as a SAHM:
Breastfeeding while chasing children through parking lots.
Miraculously holding my breath between pushes.
Passing humans through my life giving vessel. Three in four years - not bad.
Stopping the blood flow from gaping wild boy head wounds with my bare hands.
Strapping miniature humans into five-point harness car seats with one hand.
Chucking graham crackers one by one to my sons in the third and farthest row of my minivan and actually hitting my targets, right in their hungry faces.
Managing not to have a so-called REAL job for nearly six years.

Until the next slack-i-sode, y'all.