A Pint-Size Princess and Her Porcelain Throne -

I was just about to indulge in my morning caffeine fix when I heard the screams coming from the bathroom.

“Help me, Mommy,” pleaded Molly, my precocious toddler. “She is coming to get me.”
A quick glance at the clock en route to the loo to save my three-year-old revealed that it wasn’t even 7 a.m. It was going to be one of those days, again. Just great.

Sitting on the porcelain throne, my pint-size princess attempted to deter her fearless and determined one-year-old sister from making the toilet her very own personal water park.

She was unsuccessful, and I was just a little too slow (I plead coffee
depravity).

We both watched in horror as Zoe, my feisty redhead, plunked both hands deep into the bowl and pulled out a wad of sopping wet toilet paper, tossing it carelessly to the floor. *Splat.*

“Get away from that toilet right now!” I yelled, darting towards her.

Before I could scoop her up, she decided to show her big sister and her tired Mom, who was boss.

As she leaned against the bowl, her chubby legs wobbling to support herself, she splashed with all her might causing the water to drench all three of us. Now I was awake. Not exactly the wakeup call I had in mind, but it did the trick.

After cleaning the three of us up, I rechecked the time and shook my head. The rest of the world was probably showered, at work and enjoying their second or third cup of coffee. I still hadn’t managed to do any of the above. Such is my life, but that hasn’t always been the case.

It seems like only yesterday that I was out with friends sipping dirty martinis, popping bottles and sleeping in until noon.

Now my life as a stay-at-home-mom is all about changing dirty diapers, warming bottles, and consoling a teething baby during the twilight hours. I can assure you there are no sexy vampires when dawn breaks.

However, there are a frightening plethora of infomercials. Who orders a food dehydrator at 4 a.m. anyway?

Life on the Clark homefront is certainly no Norman Rockwell painting. And let’s be honest, I am no Martha Stewart.

If the queen of domesticity herself every stepped foot in my household, she d be disgraced with our endless pile of pink laundry, dishes collecting in the sink and (gasp!) little Zoe’s preference to play with the toilet.
Hey, I still consider myself a domestic rookie.

After all, it was only six months ago that I decided to leave my job as a reporter to become a stay-at-home mom — a gig far more demanding than any story deadline or political shitshow I’ve ever faced.

While there are no pats on the back for a job well done, pay raises (or any pay, for that matter), I am fortunate that I can stay at home with my two girls. In this economy, staying home isn’t always a viable option.

For my husband and me, it means having to wait even longer until we can purchase a home. But that’s a sacrifice we’re okay with, for now.

Even when the day is in the toilet (quite literally), I attempt to soak up every precious, fleeting moment with my girls. One day, too soon, they will be grown up and living their own lives, raising their own children.