Before I became a stay-home working mommy, I had delusional images as to what working from home would really mean. I pictured an eager-to-please husband (the one who is SUPPOSED to understand that I actually do work here, and not just sit and paint my toenails in the dark and eat bon-bons) happily taking charge, delegating duties, changing diapers, and running teens to their sports practices, all in the interest of allowing Mom some "alone time" just to get some work done online.

I dreamed of uninterrupted hours of pounding the keyboard into written works of art for future publication, while I lazily sipped my Kiwi tea and smoked one forbidden cigarette after another (OK, I don't smoke…but whose dream is this, anyway?). I hoped inspiration would come from wistful glances out by bedroom window while songbirds serenaded me as children played happily in the yard. I pored over Staples catalogues, making mental notes about which organizational tools I would need, and how I would obsessively and successfully arrange an office that would shame Martha Stewart.

But most of all, I dreamed of just being able to "be there" for my kids and not having to give some cigar-puffing, demanding boss the excuse that I had to rush home because one of my kids had put the hamster in the blender.

Looking back, those dreams were nice…while they lasted.

Today, after being a stay home working mom for 2 years now, I can honestly say that I must have been in some kind of mental state - like denial - when I first decided to chuck my 9 to 5 day job and opt for the leisurely life of an author. Because today, my mommy's work-at-home dream is quite different than what I imagined it would be.

Take my office, for example. Instead of the state-of-the-art computer I drooled over at Staples, I now type on a keyboard where every other key sticks from the toddler's PB&J-covered fingers, as she systematically bangs away like a concert pianist. The screen is barely legible from booger-smudges (do boys ever learn what Kleenex are for?) from my 10 year old son playing "Asteroid Death Ray" with his buddies online. My files are cardboard boxes from the "pack it yourself - we're union members" grocery store, and are labeled with the fruit-scented magic markers I stole from the girl teen. My pens and pencils are stored in a Juicy Juice box that the toddler left on my desk after one of her concertos.

My (shattered) dream of uninterrupted peace and quiet while working is often peppered with notes carefully slid under the door by one of the teens, pleading in written form, "Can I go to the mall with Susie..and can YOU drive?". My not-so-eager-to-babysit husband often bellows from the floor below my office/bedroom, "Honey?? Where's the baby wipes?" or "Honey? What should I do about grape juice stains on the beige sofa?"

He's no idiot.

He knows I will have to log off and come downstairs to his rescue. And after I have slain his dragon-du-jour, I will have to fight my way up the stairs, through a line of children clinging to my ankles and begging for one thing or another, until I can finally lock them out with one swift bolt of the door latch and hope for another 5 minutes worth of quality writing until the next disaster strikes.

Did I say that I wanted to "be there" for my kids? I think what I meant to say was, "I want to BEWARE of my kids".

Forget the office...even the bathroom is deemed a family meeting place by the children. I haven't peed alone in 15 years. Besides a regular sex life, privacy must be the 2nd most often sacrificed luxury of motherhood. I will have to "do my business" in Fort Knox to get the message across to these selfish, snot-nosed brats.

I thought about installing an intercom, but I know they would all find a way to sabotage this handy dandy little appliance, too. My son would re-invent it as a walkie-talkie, and my daughter would use it with her best friend (who might as well LIVE here since she never leaves!) to gossip about who's going steady with whom.

No, I think I'll just take up smoking and generate enough air pollution in this office to keep the enemies at the gate. That is, until they learn how to work the gas masks left over from the millenium bug scare.

Wait a minute...I think I hear the blender on "rodent frappe".

Oh, here's the classifieds...now where did I file my resume?
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