Domesticity...You Are Mine...Mwhahahaha

Upon starting to stay home over 6 months ago I suddenly was faced with two kids and no idea what in the hell to do with them for hours on end, everyday.

I was mostly scared, I'll admit it. I mean these two beasts could surely take me over in seconds and I'd be left wondering what happened while they were busy unraveling yards of toilet paper and flushing it down the toilet and purposefully grinding play-dough into the carpets, all while running around naked singing the theme song to Barney and eating all the chocolate I have stashed around the house. Honestly, I was terrified.

But, the reality of my situation was so much different. In fact it wasn't the theme song to Barney, it was The Wiggles. Other than that, I was dead on.

I'm kidding, we don't have carpets...we have hardwood. And, I hide the toilet paper where the kids can't reach it. And the chocolates are kept in the same drawer as my vibrator, far far away from from the kids.

So, my fears were really just fears. And staying at home with my kids is far more rewarding than a freaking office job where you get to talk to real people and get to eat your lunch while sitting down and maybe get to talk to someone or maybe just enjoy a book or, you know, maybe just enjoy the simple act of sitting while eating. I don't miss it, I swear.

In fact, I am having fun channeling my inner Domestic Diva. In fact, my inner Domestic Diva has gone bat shit crazy. Things that would never have interested me before are suddenly consuming all my thoughts.

Let's take play-dough, for example. I should hate it. But, I don't. It entertains my children for hours. I love it. Love! It!.

The Domestic Diva in me says I need to make this at home, you know, to save money. And! And, have the kids help. Which, is so much more exhausting than it appears.

But what makes this particular domestic aspiration even worse is when you actually make the play-dough and it fails. Because failing is not something I do well. And, certainly, I'd have to be an idiot to fail at play-dough making. I mean, it's freaking dough to play with, which doesn't involve yeast, which is the same as flour and salt, basically.

What does it say about me that I can't make freaking play-dough? It's simple. It means I fail at domesticity, of course. Fail! Epic! Fail!

And, who wants to fail at their job? No one!

But, I let my failure fall by the wayside thinking it had to be a mistake because certainly I couldn't be failing at my job. No way.

A few weeks ago I took the kids to meet some friends at a local indoor play place. At one point Aspen sat down at a craft table and one of the employees took it upon themselves to see if she'd like to play with some play-dough...of course! After seeing the play-dough I immediately picked it up and started examining it. It was amazing. The smell, the touch, the texture, the color, the sparkles...it was all so perfect.

I'll admit it, I had play-dough envy.

I found the employee and demanded the recipe. "I mean, how on earth did you make this play-dough so...decedent?" I asked. "Mine is so...disgusting compared to this." I bashfully admittedly. (Seriously, I used the word decedent to describe freaking play-dough? What is happening to me?)

She let me in on her secret...Cream of Tartar. It was like I was finally let into the secret club of domesticity with that little secret because do you want to know who made the most decedent batch of play-dough this morning?

Me.

And see, I totally don't fail at domesticity. Not that you care. Except, maybe you are keeping tabs at who is failing or something. And, totally man, it's not me...it's her. Yeah, she's failing. Not me.

God, what has happened to me?