This is dedicated to all of the stay at home moms who have ever hidden ice cream and eaten it after bedtime so you wouldn’t have to share. To all of the moms who have ever just wanted to pee alone as their 2-year-old lies in front of the toilet throwing a tantrum while they go. This is to all of the moms who, while they prayed their child would grow up just enough to not need them so much, realized around 18 years in, they would do almost anything to be needed that way again. This is for you.

Our house was loud. Not just “Oh, honey could you turn down the TV” loud, I am talking about a dull roar at most given times. There was always some level of yelling, bickering, giggling, crying, whining, talking, singing, under arm farting — noise, always noise.

I wasn’t one of those little girls who dreamed of being a mommy. I dreamed of writing like Erma Bombeck or maybe going to law school. But I found myself marrying my high school sweetheart at an age only appropriate in the Appalachian Region. And not long after, I wanted babies.

And babies I had. Six beautiful, bundles of joy within a little over eight years. I am not sure how my uterus survived the trauma. I have silently considered myself somewhat of a superhero for naturally birthing those babies with my (then) tiny 5’2” frame sans any form of pain medication with the exception of my first who made his entrance via emergency c-section because, even then, he liked to get himself in a tangle. In hindsight, I am not sure this decision was as much nobility as it was foolishness.

But there I was, the stay at home mommy to six youngins. I adored the hugs and kisses, the homemade Mother’s Day gifts every year complete with cards bearing colorful tiny handprints and “I love you, Mommy” written in big, Crayola letters along with the droopy yet majestic purple and yellow violets left to survive in a Styrofoam cup on the kitchen counter and the way they snuggled into bed with me during a thunderstorm. The first clap of thunder was sure to usher in at least two of the tribe. And by the end of the night, there would be seven of us in that little bed, vying for position and blanket use. There were little sweaty hands and feet everywhere, but there was something peaceful and serene in that early morning chaos.

I had a harder time dealing with the level of snot and feces that six cherub-faced, little people can expel from their bodies with brute force. I discovered that if you do not wipe a green snotty nose immediately, a child will lick said snot from their little chapped top lip. And a poopy diaper left unattended becomes inspiration for a child’s new finger-painting masterpiece with the nearest wall being the canvas.

And time, “me time” in particular, became a scarce commodity. Occasionally, waiting for the opportune moment to literally tiptoe from their midst, I would sneak into the bathroom for a ten minute mommy time out and would savagely shovel a Twix candy bar into my mouth so quickly that one time when I was trying to sneak out of the bathroom, my almost three year old asked “Mommy, is that poop on your mouth?” And as shame washed over me I answered, “Yes, sweetheart” as I wiped my mouth on my sleeve because I would rather lie than admit I was stashing candy.

Even in those (rare) peaceful moments when they surrounded me, and we were all cuddled up together and life smelled fresh and new, like tear-free shampoo and rainbows, there was always trouble lurking in the distance waiting to pounce. I have faced the “Def Con 1” of stay-at-home-parenting.

You see, there was a week some years ago when five of my six children all simultaneously had the chicken pox. The only reason child number six didn’t have them was because she was still safely tucked inside my womb in the germ-free zone. Close your eyes and imagine five children covered with little blistering sores, whining, itching, cute little noses snotting, fevers, crying, scratching and all needing something from mommy. It was mommy hell. I had two arms, they had ten. I was outmanned and outnumbered. It wasn’t pretty. There was more snot, vomit, pus and Children’s Tylenol that week in our house than I care to recall.

My favorite times, however, were when the spectators would stand and watch me with my gaggle of children trying to get through the checkout line at the grocery. There was inevitably always at least one child crying because they wanted candy, someone had to pee and someone had already peed. My unbrushed hair was now hanging out of my pony tail as I fumbled for cash and coupons, trying to smile while the newly-weaned toddler was pulling my shirt down looking for a snack.

People stopped and watched the madness unfold, the cashier stood, mouth agape, like she was watching the apes at the new zoo exhibit. And then they would attempt to offer words of condolence to me such as “Oh my, you have your hands full” or “At least you don’t have a job too, dear.” Sometimes, if I were particularly exhausted and hormonal I would cry, but more often than not, I would smile and mutter “Moron” under my breath as we walked away from the bewildered onlookers and as we left the store one of the tribe would ask “Momma, who’s moron?”

I don’t know how many times over the years I heard the words “Oh, so you don’t work?” Don’t work?! I can’t tell you the number of times I have wished that my right hand would become an over-sized boxing glove on a spring, so that with the push of a button I could knock them out cold.

Don’t work?! When was the last time they did a 24 shift with four kids with the stomach flu? Have you ever tried to get six children into church on a Sunday morning, freshly bathed, no one with soggy cheerios stuck to their cheeks? My job is 24 hours a day, no time clock, no paid vacation. I can’t remember the last time I had lunch with a girlfriend without having barf on my shirt. I went on an eight year stretch without having a hot, straight from the pot, cup of coffee. My life is soggy cereal and sticky lifesavers in the bottom of my bargain rack tote bag.

I have been looked down on like I am lazy because I stay at home with my children. That is the irony of the “job.” I was expected, as a female, to take care of my children. However, I wasn’t valued for choosing that as my career. But any man in my position, making the same choice I did is hailed as a selfless saint for being willing to stay at home with his children. “What a great guy!” I would often hear about the dad at the PTA who stayed at home while his wife was finishing her medical residency. Someone once had the balls to say to me “How will your children learn the importance of working hard?” I have taught them not only the importance of working hard, but the importance of not giving up in the hard times. I have taught them that they have choices in this life, and just because someone chooses differently that doesn’t make them any less valuable.

For those who think a stay at home mom has taken the easy road has clearly never attempted to care for children at home, day-in and day-out, with no end in sight. There is no time clock in my kitchen where I punch out at the end of a long day. There are no regular breaks or lunch hours, and no sick days. In fact, I went for about sixteen years without eating a hot meal in a seated position. Stay at home mommy-hood wasn’t a choice I made for the accolades that I would receive, in fact I had heard it could be a thankless job- my mother used to tell me all the time. But the "#1 Mom!" magnet picture frames on the fridge make it pretty worth it.

So for those reading this who are sleep-deprived and bone weary from the day-in and day-out ride through mommy-hood, I promise that you too will survive. In fact, when the ride is over, and you exit the gate in your shirt stained with vomit, split ends that needed attention months ago, holding a cold cup of coffee that needs nuked for the third time, you will look back and you will wish the ride hadn’t ended so quickly, and the tears you shed won’t all be tears of joy. So hang in there, lighten up, laugh more, and enjoy...it’s the ride of a lifetime!