The Days Are Long

My alarm goes off at 7 a.m., but my daughter has been awake for an hour. She's an early riser. I'm a night owl.

She's learned to turn on the television and command the Fire TV to start playing Peppa Pig as I go downstairs to make her breakfast and lunch. Simultaneously, I do the dishes and check on the cats.

I boil water for my morning cup of tea, plate my daughter's eggs with whatever fruit is available, and head upstairs.

As I sip my tea, I watch my daughter stab at pieces of egg and grab a strawberry with her other hand - multitasking at its finest.

With half my tea gone, I get up to gather her clothes for the day - hoping her school shirt is washed. The preschool requires their school shirt to be worn every day. I only bought 3-silly me.

My daughter sees the clump of clothes in my hands and spies her blue school shirt.

"Preschool?" her face lights up, and she adds, "I love preschool!"

We do a dance that we've practiced every morning. Sleep clothes off, day clothes on, socks, and hug. She tries to balance as she puts her pants on but finds the comfort of my shoulders is best for these moments.

I pick up my purse and grab my daughter's light-up Sketchers.

"I want to wear my boots. Like Shay," she looks at me with her big three-year-old eyes, "please," she adds like magic.

"Okay, you can wear your boots today," I answer as I place her shoes down and pick up her rain boots. We don't argue trivial matters. What's the harm in wearing rain boots when it's sunny?

We make it to the car with distracted focus, she climbs up into her car seat, and I buckle her into safety. The school is only 5 minutes away, but you never know what could happen. Safety first.

"Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday," my daughter recites in a sing-song voice. She can tell me the next day of the week if I tell her it's Wednesday.

She can count to 20 and has slowed down when singing the ABCs to make sure she clearly states "L - M - N - O." I don't think I could do that until I was in first grade. I assumed "ellemenoh" was a word built into the song. My husband ensured to correct her each time. Now, my daughter is determined to show off her ability and knowledge of the alphabet.

We pull into the school's parking lot, and I go slow because I know other toddlers will be walking with their parents. Many of them have similar navigational capabilities as my daughter.

"That's Simon's mom! There's Simon and Garrett!" excitedly, my daughter is looking out of the window. We do this five days a week, and she's always excited to see her classmates.

We're out of the car and start to walk across the parking lot, holding hands due to the aforementioned navigational skills. Safety is still first.

A car comes around the corner, just as slow. Another mom with like-minded thinking stops and lets us cross. Safety is always first for moms.

As we approach the door, my daughter projects, "good morning!" The headteacher looks over and greets my daughter. I sign her in on the clipboard as she slips into the classroom.

"Don't forget your lunch and water!" I remind her, holding them up for her to see.

"Oh! Sorry," she runs back to grab her things, and I squat down to give her a long hug. Toddlers hug with all of their hearts.

"Be good. I love you." I whisper in her ear.

"Love you, too. I will. Bye!" She scampers off to see what the earlier group is up to.

I walk back to the car and head back home.

With the dishes done, I start a load of laundry. While organizing the mess of toys left out on the floor, I notice the carpet needs vacuuming.

There's a therapy in vacuuming I never felt before. Gliding over various spots, I hear the "tssshhh" as an unseen litter of crumbs is drawn up out of the fibers. I repeat the motion as the sound becomes a whisper and becomes silent amongst the whirs of the vacuum. These small areas are in pockets around the carpet, the usual haunts where pieces of cookies or cereal fell.

I do one last go around the carpet, listening for those pockets of crumbs to ensure nothing has been missed. Pulling out the hose, I get in between the couch cushions-more "tssshhh" sounds. The hose pushes out a pen and a small Troll doll. Luckily, the vacuum didn't suck up the doll; I put her next to the crayons on the shelf.

Taking out the Swiffer, I take to the hard-surfaced floors. Picking up hair, dust, and other loose filth, the Swiffer is a Godsend I never appreciated before having a child. After Swiffering, I get the vacuum once again to pick up the pieces the Swiffer couldn't.

I used to sweep, but the vacuum is much more effective.

After the floors are cleaned, I jump on my computer to do some writing.

When I got back into writing, I had no idea what to write about. What sort of knowledge did I have to offer the world?

I had aspired to be a novelist at one point but never had the courage to complete and submit anything. Now, with blogging, perhaps I could work my way up.

As I began to write more, the topics of focus took shape. The majority of stories I wrote came from my experiences as a mother. Pushing thoughts of "someone has written about this already" to the back of my mind, I wrote my experiences down in hopes of helping others who may be facing similar struggles.

As a new mom and a woman who initially did not want kids, I faced many internal struggles. Grappling with the idea of even becoming a mother and still having identity issues such as imposter syndrome, I wanted to be a beacon of hope for those feeling alone.

I never feel like a "mom." Perhaps there is this cookie-cutter idea of what a stay-at-home mom does. I do clean, and I cook, but I also sit around a lot. I don't have a job, so I can focus on watching our daughter, and my husband's job can be unpredictable, meaning he needs my schedule to follow our daughter's.

That being said, I consider I could do more, but I never allow myself to be less for my daughter.

My job as a mom is to give my daughter the time and energy she deserves. To support her curiosities and be there when she needs me. As for "what do I do all day," I work on myself.

Becoming a mother is becoming an entirely new person. Your identity has shifted, and you are no longer thinking for one. This doesn't, however, mean you can't think of yourself.

I take the moments I have, the time my daughter is in school, to focus on me. To be selfish and consider my needs. To slow down.

Being a stay-at-home mom doesn't mean constantly doing chores. It means being present for your family. Utilize the time given to you. If your cup is not full, if you don't take care of yourself, you will have nothing to give to your loved ones.

It's okay not to be busy. To not work if you don't have to. To find ways to better yourself without having to pencil it in. The more care I give to myself, the more present I am for my daughter. I can slow down with her, see her, be with her, and remember the times we have together.

The days may feel long, but the years are short.

At 2:30 p.m., I pick up my daughter.