Every once in a while, Ammon and I will get into a discussion about whose job is harder. He always talks about how lucky I am to spend so much time with the kids, and that I don’t have to worry about making enough money to support the family. I bring up the fact that his job doesn’t include people hanging on his legs while he goes to the bathroom or throwing chicken nuggets at his head and screaming incoherently. His boss always tells him what a great job he’s doing. In fact, a couple of months ago he even got a raise and a promotion. My bosses like to show their appreciation by splashing me in the face with bath water and taking turns waking up before dawn.

I would kill for the kind of work environment he has. Can you imagine? He gets to eat lunch whenever he wants, without first taking orders from tiny irrational people who yell at you when you refuse to give them ice cream. He gets to spend time talking to people about interesting, intelligent subjects instead of asking them if they have to go potty or explaining the various alternatives for cleaning one’s nose other than picking it. I suppose that’s the very nature of being a mother. It’s a job filled with mundane, repetitive tasks, severe under appreciation, and no breaks. None whatsoever. I work seven days a week, on call twenty-four hours a day, and I don’t even bring home minimum wage.

So why in the world do I feel guilty about wanting to get away from it all?

It’s not like I’m asking for a month long cruise in the Bahamas (although hey, if anyone is offering, I’ll totally take you up on it!) I just need a night to myself once in a while. Maybe a weekend without any responsibilities. A few hours to go shopping alone so I can actually look at the merchandise instead of chasing two crazed little monkeys all over the store. But when I admit those needs to myself, I am always suddenly filled with shame and guilt. I mean, what kind of mother would want to get away from her precious babies, the people she loves most in the whole entire world? It feels like some kind of failure, like I just can’t take the heat. And as much as my head tells me that I’ll never be able to take care of anyone else unless I take care of myself first, I still can’t escape the whisper that crawls up my spine telling me what a terrible mother I am for wanting to get the heck out of here.

There are times when my kids just fill my heart with pride and pleasure. First of all, they are the cutest kids on the planet, and even when they’re grumpy they look beautiful. And sometimes I get a glimpse of what’s going on inside their sweet little heads, and I just can’t believe that I am the one they call their mommy. We went trick or treating at Ammon’s office on Halloween, and Babs was in sugar heaven. Most of the employees had already gone home, so the long hallways were lined with bowls of candy sitting outside empty offices. As she filled her bag, Babs looked up with this darling little mischievous look on her face and said, “It’s like stealing, and saying trick or treat!” Seriously. Who would not want to hang out with a kid who comes up with stuff like that?

I know that those cute moments are always sandwiched between moments of limit pushing and selective hearing, but again I hear that whisper telling me that if I was a “good mother”, the happy times would be enough to slide me effortlessly through those not so happy times. It’s not true of course, and it’s a stupid, irrational thought. I just have to figure out how to stop listening to it.