Homemakers deserve all the props in the world.  You know it and I know it.  So do working parents.

A lot can be said for both sides of the debate: homemakers don’t get enough credit for being basically a CEO, maid, chef, chauffeur, and nanny all rolled up into one; working parents sacrifice so much in order to be able to provide for their family - time with kids, being the best parents they can be, cutting corners when it comes to domestic upkeep.

Even though homemakers don’t receive anough credit (and, for that matter, neither do working parents — heck, let’s just all lay off parents once in a while), they’re certainly blessed.

Enter Alli.

Crap.

Okay, so I’m not exactly a working parent, since I’m a college student and “work,” for me, consists of freelance graphic design and a part-time on-campus job in between classes.  During the summer breaks, I relapse back into homemaker mode, a role I enjoyed exclusively for the first eighteen months of Leah’s life.  But I still get the idea. 

And the idea is that we need to keep Alli as far away from being a homemaker as possible.

Proof lies in the hour before CK came home from his business trip last week.  I’d been paging him and paging him and paging him all day, trying to find out when he was supposed to be home.  Finally I send myself a test message and realize tmobile is down again.  Figures  Fine, I text him instead and he says he’s already on 270 and on his way home.

All together now:  Crap.

It’s 9:30 at night and Leah isn’t even in her jammies (bedtime was an hour ago).  Dishes are piled up along the kitchen counter, and the dishwasher is still full of clean dishes from when we ran it the day CK left.  Laundry hasn’t been folded, toys are everywhere.  Desk is full of slips of paper from a mid-morning checkbook crisis and notes from a design project I’d been procrastinating on.  Our swim bag full of wet suits and towels from a trip to the pool a couple hours ago hasn’t been unpacked or aired out.  And me?  I’m sitting on the couch reading Harry Potter.

He texts me again, says he’ll be home in half an hour.

Again: Crap.

I switch into supermom mode.   Okay, okay… more like desperate hag mode.

Compromises with my inner supermom/hag are made and I pick up 3/4ths of the toys.  The rest are thrown into Leah’s room and concealed behind closed doors. 

I do all the dishes except the pots and pans and I drown those in water and soap.  I can say I left them “to soak.” 

Leah gets in her jammies and I tell her to get in bed NOW.  Fine, read books, take your cars in bed, have a frickin’ tea party in there, I don’t care.  Just get in bed NOW (add silently so she doesn’t get all riled up again: before daddy gets home).

Send CK some mooshy message about how I’m just sitting at home in sweet wifely devotion waiting for him.  Throw pager back on desk and run to clean  bathroom’s feared Female Toiletry Sprawl.

Okay, so now the house is still a mess, but it’s manageable.  Smooth down my hair, apply lipstick, pour a mug of tea, sit back on the couch at 9:55, do quick survey of immediate area, make sure there’s nothing too bad, and open up Harry Potter and put my feet up.  I see the cats’ ears flick toward the door, and CK’s head peeks into the room.

“Darling!” I say, grinning brightly to cover my panting breath.  “You’re home!  I’ve missed you!”  He even gives me a hug as I say, “What, me?  Oh, been doing nothing, really.”

…Behind my back he grimaces at the fresh juice stain on carpet.  Then he hugs me again without saying anything.  Now, that’s a good boy.