Bitches Get Shit Done

It’s 4pm, also known asMama’s So Tired and Kids Are Crazy o’clock.

I want nothing more than to hide on my couch with the covers pulled tightly around me. I want to close my eyes and drift off with no other human body touching my own.

There will be none of that, though. They are heckling me with arguments over scraps of paper, or garbage, if you were the judge, and complaining of hunger and weather and clothes that are not just so. Where is their mother? Oh, that's right.

I rise up even though I am bedraggled, befuddled and so, so weary.

He won’t be home soon enough that I can coast. The TV isn’t cutting it anymore.

I channel women who are not me: wise, strong, capable, creative, nurturing mothers who push through difficult times and get shit done.

I channel them, I become them, I am them.

I march into the kitchen, I turn on music and I find something –  anything – that looks suitable enough to be called dinner.

They flock to me now: do I sense a bewilderment in their eyes? Mom is moving. Mom is happy.

“Mom, I’m a super hero! I save people from pirates!” he yells as he zooms around our tiny kitchen.

I am, too, I think to myself. I get shit done.