I’m officially one of those women.

Hi. My name is Erin. I take my kids to daycare so I can go to the gym.

I swore I would never do it. I swore that as a stay-at-home mom I wouldn’t stick my kids in daycare for my “selfish” purposes.

I lied. Chalk it up to one of those things I swore I would never do before I had two kids.
I’m getting my hippo ass in shape and part of that means exercise. The Kaiser leaves this house at 730am and gets home at 830pm. Walking with the kids is an exercise of my patience, not my ass.

But here in suburban LA they have thought of everything, and I can take my kids to the uber-cool gym/cafe/pool/kids club/meeting spot/coffee house in the towncenter and exercise my thighs off.

At first I thought I would feel guilty as the nice teenager/college age/20-somethings pulled my red-faced daughter from my hip so I could pretend to climb stairs while listening to my iPod.

Turns out, despite the tears and snot…I feel nothing but bliss. At least an hour of ass-burning, kid free, tv’s on every machine NOT tuned to cartoons, bliss.

I don’t care if I look like those snotty Alpha-Moms prancing in with their coffee cup and cell phone. They always seem to be on that phone while their neat and obnoxious kids (too involved in their gameboys to even notice where their mother has dragged them too this time) follow behind. But who am I kidding? I look nothing like them.
Dear God, their hair and nails and work-out “outfits” are always perfect and clean and ironed and tiny. They seem to blow in the doors, sign the daycare sheet, and blow out…all while I struggle to lick my daughter’s hair down in place and wipe yesterday’s ketchup off my son’s cheek. Nevermind I’m in the pants I slept in and am using a children’s hair clip with smiley faces on it to keep locks out of my face.

I wonder if they once looked like me? Struggling to keep it together and hoping an hour at the gym will help. Pulling a pouting 3-year-old through the door, begging him to carry his own bag while the toddler manages to get her arms out of her overalls and drop trou.

Were they in Target clearance sweats and a t-shirt from 1994 once? Or did they just always look this good?

Either way, I’m there. I’m there and I’m doing it. And I’m happier for it.

So despite the tiny twinge of guilt for letting my kids run around a romper room and play two or three times a week without me, I’m happier and will be healthier. And who are we kidding…hotter.

I knew I needed to turn my head while I cooked dinner. Now I know why…

There are days I am the laziest Mom ever.

For instance, on the day after Halloween when my children ate nothing but candy, a few frozen waffles, some flat bread and baked brie, and more candy.

I’m not kidding.

On the other hand, my house got cleaned. Which, for some odd reason I don’t categorize as part of being a Mom, but rather as just keeping my living quarters healthy and respectable.

It’s not as if Halloween was sooooooooo much unlike any other day around here that I needed this entire day to recoup. The kids didn’t get to bed too late. They didn’t travel anywhere out of the ordinary or need anything extraordinary. Which leads me to believe my post-holiday laziness is purely mental.

I had to plan the costumes. Decorate the house. Get 3 dozen donut holes for the school parade. Attend the school parade, remember the camera, bring the change of clothes, bring the costume home. Attend the smaller child’s class party, remember the costume. Buy the candy to hand out. Get ready to trick or trick. Remember the camera. Actually trick or treat-twice-once in our neighborhood and once from a party in an adjoining neighborhood. Remember the camera. Remember my costume. Remember my husband’s costume. Remember the “adult” cider. Remember the “adult” cider travel mugs. Remember glow sticks. Remember all parts of all peoples costumes. Do without some parts of peoples costumes. Rely heavily on my husband to make all those above things happen.

Oh, don’t forget the tissues for runny noses and the extra pull ups for the 3-year old with the candy-induced shits.

Sometimes, in the midst of all the excitement, I’m so busy remembering that I forget to have fun.

…and then little voices, tiny voices, skip and sing about candy and treats and tricks and all the remembering melts away. The “adult” cider helps too.

If your Nana and Gramps fly in from across the country and take you to the toy store…what would you pick?

Personally, I would have went with a ride on tractor or barbie jeep or something. But whatever.

I’m watching a giant chicken harass Elmo.

Something about Elmo’s perpetual perkiness is killing me right now. I want that chicken to eat Elmo. I want that chicken to crunch him like a cracker between his flappy beak.

But, of course, Elmo can’t die. When Count Waffles asked what happened to the Little Mermaid’s Mom and Chicken Little’s Mom…I gave him the Kaiser’s answer, “They are at the spa.” If the wee ones were to actually watch Elmo be crunched into tiny, red pieces I’d have some explaining to do. I suppose I could say the chicken was just making a puzzle out of Elmo to put together later. Or that Elmo was just pretending to be hurt. We’re big on pretending these days. Just this morning I pretending to eat an ice cream made of blocks and cars.

mmmmmmmmmmm yummy plastic wheelie goodness.

But there are days when I just don’t have the energy. I don’t have the energy to come up with fun games. Or smiles when I am asked, for the 50th time, to put a shoe on. Then take it off. Then put it on. Then take it off. Then put it back on. Only to take it off.

Some days, I want to knock the children out with cough syrup, wear big heavy boots so I can’t feel the toys under my feet, drink 3 martinis, do illegal drugs, have wild sex, and forget I’m a Mom. Not because I don’t want to be a Mom. Not because I want the kids to be gone forever. But for just, one, brief moment…I want this job to be temporary, not constant. I want to not be responsible.

Of course, that will never happen. Motherhood is forever. The responsibility is endless and the whining and crying and tugging and needs never stop.

Although I’m really excited at the possibility of hate mail from those last few paragraphs (I’ve gotten some really great ones lately…did you know I was an evil baby killer??) I dare any of you to deny those fleeting thoughts in your own parentbrains.

And while I may dream of drunken debauchery and no responsibility, I’d never actually do it.

Instead, I silently root for the giant chicken to eat Elmo. To tear him limb from fuzzy limb. Then to dance on his head to some old school nasty rock while he downs a fifth. I picture myself partying next to him. We eventually hold a bonfire with the rest of Elmo’s body. Others join us. The chants of ELMO DIES! ELMO DIES! don’t stop even when the cops try and bust up the fun. FUCK THE POLICE! FUCK THE POLICE! yells the crowd as we throw more booze on the fire and get naked and piss on things.

Or maybe I just need to take my over active imagination to the spa. Not that spa. The real one.

***I’m over at The Huffington Post!