How do you do it?

I am asked that question all the time, and friends, I don't get it. How do I do what? Watch my kids? Stay at home? Cook three meals-a-day, wash, dry and fold laundry, vacuum, dust and pay bills? I just do. Because it's my job. And yes, contrary to popular belief, it is a full-time job...but unlike those of you who get a paycheck each Friday, I am perpetually waiting for the crew from Publisher's Clearinghouse to show up at my door and reward me for all of my hard work. I mean, I would be waiting if I actually did that Publisher's Clearinghouse stuff. I just don't...because I'd probably become addicted to those bonus item things they send ya.

Anyway, I regress....as I typically do....
The other day (I say "the other day" a lot, as if there is some week in my subconscious, comprised of "other days") I was in the grocery store with one kid. I have decided that one kid is my max for grocery store trips. More than one comes along, and they fight like rabid raccoons. One, I can handle. Usually. It's just important that I never underestimate the volume of even just one little mouth. And the word "want." A kid can say something as politely as possible, but when it comes to the part when they say they "want" something, it is always at least 30 decibels louder than anything else they've previously said. E.g.: "Mommy, can you please buy those Danimals (or if you're my kid, you embarrassingly pronounce it "damnanimals") crush-cup yogurts? I WANT them!!!"

So.

I had a pretty successful trip, on this other day, when I went to the store. Things stayed mellow, I bought what I needed, took advantage of some good deals. Then there's the checkout. And I think we should really give a tongue-lashing to people who market checkout lanes, because they clearly do not have children who WANT all those little pocket-size toys, gum, and intriguing cans of Binaca. Nonetheless, my boy was not too hard on me this day. Yes, he asked for every last little item there, as I was distractedly emptying my cart onto the belt, but he did not scream or cry, or do anything that would have surely happened if there had been more than one child present. It was the lady behind us who made the trip memorable...she kept eyeing my purchases, making concerned faces. Finally, as she placed the little "order separator" between our cart-loads, she said "How do you do it?!"
I stopped, dead in my tracks.
"Do what?" I said with a half-smile, expecting the worst...imagining that she perhaps saw my child pocket the Binaca when I wasn't looking, and I'd have to make some horrible example of why we do not steal even if it's small and fits in our pocket...(can you tell I've had to do that before?!)
"I mean," she says, "do you have a big family? Or do you at least have someone to help you unload all this stuff at home? Who do you make all this for?" as she sweeps her hand across the grand pile of chicken, toaster waffles, spaghetti sauce, dog treats and produce on the belt. "And all those paper products," pointing to the paper towel and toilet paper, (listed as PT and TP on my grocery list)"must cost you a fortune!"
I chuckled. It's what I do when I don't really know what to say.
"It does, actually, but you know...coupons...and..."
"But how do you do it? How many kids do you have?"
Now this woman looked about 65. From what I know about her younger years, back in the 40's and 50's, it wasn't atypical to have a big family. So what gives? I've only got 3. 4 when my stepson is over...I didn't think that was a lot. Yes, it's hard, and yes, they're young. But it isn't horrible. So I told her something along those lines, and she gave me this half-smile of pity. Which is when I started mentally going over my outfit and hairdo without actually looking away from her. Did I brush my hair? Am I wearing earrings? Did I spill Diet Coke on my shirt in the car? My only guess is that I look like a destitute woman at her wits-end.
And something odd comes of this situation.
Instead of feeling bad about her revelation that my life must be terribly difficult, I suddenly feel a little bit gleeful. I stand a little taller. I grin at my little boy, now engrossed in a National Enquirer. Heck yeah, this is a tough job. Finally, someone sees, it's a job. No weekends off. 24 hour shifts. No paycheck, no bonus, no vacation. No company car, just a hideous minivan with a mysterious odor and the occasional french fry wedged in the seat cushion.
Clearly, even if just for a moment, I've debunked the myth that stay-at-home moms are these perfectly pedicured Betty Crockers, lounging about on the patio with an Arnold Palmer, awaiting their Ward Cleaver to return, briefcase in hand, to sit down to a lovely gourmet meal.
So I shrugged my shoulders, wiped the pretend-sweat from my brow and did one of those little, "well ya know..." things while playfully shaking my head as I handed the cashier my credit card.
All in a day's work.