I am trying to compose and post the remainder of our vacation.
I am trying to unpack the six hundred suitcases.
I am trying to open and sort a four foot high stack of mail.
I am trying to figure out where to put the eight million souvenirs we collected.
I am trying to remember what time zone I am in.
I am trying to discern our future financial situation as we both remain unemployed, and one of us is waiting to hear if we are disabled.
I am trying to referee between two UFC fighters who also claim to be my children.
I am trying to clean this filthy, dog-hair infested house of a home we now live in again.
But I just received a divine confirmation.
As I was severely multi-tasking, by taking a shower, conditioning my hair, shaving my legs AND cleaning the shower, shower walls, and tub, and my dear, sweet, nearly perfect, always well-behaved, and always well-mannered children burst their way into the shower, pulled back the curtain and attempted to get me to continue to act as umpire for their ridiculously petty arguments as to whether or not a ribbon belongs on a horse's head or around a horse's neck, God sent me a confirmation.
I am not meant to be a stay at home mom.