Recently I had occasion to fill out a Very Official Form that required me to state my occupation.  (Said Very Official Form was, in fact, a claim for exemption from jury duty.  Yes — I got selected for jury duty three weeks after giving birth.  I could only laugh at the timing.  Actually, I didn’t laugh.  I darn near cried.  Until I read further down the form and saw that parents who are the primary caregivers of children under the age of fifteen are not required to serve.  Although I think as a new parent I would also qualify as not being of sound mind.  But I digress.)

Usually, when I must put my occupation on a Not Very Official Form, such as a new patient form at a medical practice, I say I’m a freelance writer, or I leave it blank, depending on how I’m feeling about my writing at that moment.  There was always the homemaker option, but before I had a baby, I never felt comfortable calling myself a homemaker, because homemakers are generally assumed to be stay-at-home moms, not merely stay-at-home wives.  But when I was filling out my Very Official Jury Duty Exemption Form, I was doing so as a new mom, so I happily filled in my occupation as homemaker.  (Even though writer equally applied, as I was getting lots of rejection letters at that time, which a favorite writing teacher of mine always said makes him feel like a real, working writer.)

Fast-forward two weeks, to yesterday.  When, if I’d had to fill in my occupation on a Form of Any Kind, Official or Not, I would have had a meltdown of Chernobyl proportions.   Which I did anyway.  Well, maybe not on the scale of Chernobyl, but there was smudged mascara.

You see, I had to go grocery shopping.  I had to.  If I didn’t, we wouldn’t have anything for dinner.  (Actually, I’m now realizing we had stuff for Sausage and Peppers Rustica or Four Cheese Ravioli with Marinara; I stocked up on that stuff pre-baby for just such a situation as this.)

As you can probably guess, I didn’t make it to the grocery store (and I didn’t remember I had stockpiled for a nuclear holocaust) because I was having One of Those Days with Liam and couldn’t find five spare minutes to make a grocery list, because I couldn’t find five spare minutes before that to to put together a meal plan for the week.  Because the baby wouldn’t take a nap or go in his swing or let me hold him without changing positions every two seconds and crying or stop nursing.

Around noon, I did make it upstairs to the guest room, where Mr. Burt works.  And proceeded to cry.  Louder than the baby.

“Here,” said Mr. Burt, “let me take Liam for a while.  You need a break.”

I did need a break.  “But I don’t deserve a break,” I protested through my tears, withholding Liam from my husband.  “I haven’t done anything today to need a break from.”  I felt guilty for the shower — complete with leg shaving — I’d managed while Liam cried in his bouncer chair.

Mr. Burt looked at me like I didn’t qualify for serving on a jury on grounds of not being of sound mind.  “Haven’t done anything?  You’ve taken care of Liam all morning.”

“I’ve only nursed him and changed his diaper.”

A milder version of the look that said I was crazy was accompanied by a crooning tone of compassion.  “Honey, all he does right now is eat, poop, and sleep.”

This should have made me feel better, but more tears fell.  “Today he doesn’t sleep.  And I need to go to the store or we won’t have anything for dinner.”

“But you’ve been working hard,” said Mr. Burt.  “You deserve a break.”

So I took a break, even though I still didn’t feel like I deserved it — failed homemaker that I was — and the five minute drive to Arby’s for lunch cleared my head.  Mr. Burt was right.  Only nursing is a ridiculous way to look at it.  Newborns nurse 8-12 times a day.  For 20-30 minutes minimum each time.   That’s a full day’s work.  A full-time job.  And if Liam’s fussy, it doesn’t mean I fail at babies.  It just means he’s having a bad day, like we all do.  Or gas.

When I got home, Mr. Burt echoed my thoughts.  “You’re trying to fit Liam in around your old housekeeping routine.  Now you have to fit all that stuff around Liam.  He’s your job now.”

“The job I have no control over,” I said.  “As a writer, I’m used to having control over everybody else.”

Mr. Burt grinned.  “For now, Liam controls us.  It won’t always be that way.  But for now, if the other stuff doesn’t happen, it doesn’t matter.”

I felt better, and didn’t cry as I said, “The grocery shopping has to happen.  We have to eat.”

“Well, yeah,” Mr. Burt acquiesced.  “But we can go out to eat.”

So we had dinner at Chili’s(where I forgot to pick up my credit card).  Then I made a meal plan for next week.  And a grocery list.  And today I got myself together before Liam woke up, then fed him and got him dressed, and we were out of the house by 9 and home with more than a week’s worth of groceries by 10:45.  The rest of the day, I’ve managed to make the bed, run the dishwasher, bake muffins, and cook dinner around Liam.

Oh — and write this blog post, of course.

Today I was a homemaker (as I was yesterday, whether it felt like it or not; though getting four loads of laundry washed and dried, if not put away, helped).  As long as I’m home with my family, I’m a homemaker.

Maybe tomorrow I can be a writer, too.  I could stand to be in control of a few people.