I’m inventing a new day of the week; it’s called Momday

Yup, you heard me.

I don’t care if I don’t have the power to declare a new day, I have a feeling it’s going to catch on. I don’t even have a preference when it comes in the week, it can follow Monday or proceed Friday and I wouldn’t care. 

All I want is one day for me. 

As any other mom will attest, when you’re a parent you don’t really get a day off. (Even my husband only gets about four hours a week to escape from the land of our mini-me into the world of overgrown men beating each other up over a ball). 

Being a mom is an absolutely beautiful thing; I wouldn’t trade Pearyn for all the cruelty-free cupcakes in the world. 

But it’s also one of the most emotionally exhausting job you’ll ever do. And it is just that — a job. You have to wake up and go to bed far earlier than you’d like and you don’t really get a say-so in the matter. You’re feelings and concerns don’t matter any more, it’s what’s ‘good for the group.’ 

I’ve talked about it before, how easy and dangerous it is to only identify yourself as a mommy once you become one. It’s a battle I fight nearly every day, trying to find a way to balance the Chubby Vegan Mom part of me with the Amanda I used to be. Surely I wasn’t obsessed with the consistency of a tiny human being’s poop when I was in college, right?

I probably sound like I’m whining, which, I kind of sort of am. You can cue the world’s tiniest violin playing the saddest song just for me, get me some more (vegan) cheese for my whine and let me wash it down with a tall glass of shut-the-hell up. I’ve got to get this off my chest already. 

This week has been draining. 

Pearyn hasn’t been napping — at all — which would be fine if she was a semi-tolerable human to be around without a nap, but she’s not. At all. And the dishes seem to never go away (I know, I’m seriously to the point where I’m whining about dishes, it annoys me too). My meal plans for the week are so ridiculously uninspired (Indian food from a box anyone?) I think a box of cereal would be more interesting and I’m tired of spending my days off grocery shopping and cleaning.

I’m trying to finish my first-ever kids book and while I am somewhat confident in my ability to write blogs, columns and 30-page thesis’ on the effects of dysfunctional sexual relationships on Virginia Woolf’s writing, I can’t help but feel incredibly ill-equipped to write an early reader. I want to do it and I’m going to, good vegan children’s books are few and far between, but the perfectionist in me is not looking forward to the criticism, to the imperfections. 


AND I found a smashed up cookie, old almond milk single-serving carton, nasty carrot, broken crayon, a flip flop and spit up (that has to be at least 8 months old because Pearyn quit spitting up at least 8 months ago) under a couch cushion. 



I’m surrounded by amazingly strong women in my life (some mothers, some wives, newlyweds and one particular 20-something divorcee) and I can’t help but be in awe of their positive outlook on life and their faith. 

And hope. 

I need me some of that.

How DO they do it?

I know tomorrow will be a better day, only five hours stands between me and my best friend’s birthday, coffee Saturday with the women in my family and the weekend.

So I guess I’ll go ahead and retract all my whining now; it’s not that bad to be me. 

Well, except for the eight-month-old spit up under my couch cushion. That still sucks (and stinks for that matter). 

Even my 16-month-old daughter has grown tired of my whining.