A Full-Time Job

I've often heard people describe parenting as the only true "full-time job" on the planet. Until I had my own, I didn't know exactly what they meant. Now I do, in spades.

Here is a typical rundown of the day in Chez Korn:

5:00 The alarm goes off. Hit snooze once or twice, then roll out of bed and enjoy a few minutes on the computer with my donut and milk.

5:30 Jenna wakes up. Everyone else should be up too, according to her. Attempt to pack her lunch for daycare while she stands, zombielike, in the kitchen, with her sippy cup.

5:45 I hop in the shower, sometimes with a fuzzy 6-year-old, sometimes without. Jenna needles Daddy until he rolls out of bed also.

6:00 Time to steer Sierra towards the car while Rob attempts to give Jenna yet another dose of Omnicef. We try to reason with her; "It's this or tubes, honey, take your choice." She doesn't understand. Hair Trigger just wails.

6:45 Arrive at school, steer Sierra towards the sink in my classroom so she can brush her teeth. Lay out papers for my students.
Back at home ... Rob showers, dresses, dresses Jenna, feeds the dogs, loads Jenna in the car, and he's off. Drops Jenna off at daycare, receives hugs from every kid in her class. It's the highlight of his day.

7:40-1:40 Deal with a whirlwind of students. Hug Sierra at some point after dismissal, as our paths cross on her way to After-School.

1:40-2:30 Meetings, meetings, meetings. Lay out sub plans every day, in detail, because a small child could be barfing on me in a matter of hours and I have to be prepared.

2:30 Pack it in for the day at school, gather Sierra from After-School, drive 30 minutes to pick up Jenna, drive another 30 minutes home.

3:30 Enjoy 20-30 minutes of computer time while the girls munch on their afternoon snack. Plop Jenna on the golf cart and take her to Grandma's house for some pampering. Golf cart home, help Sierra change into her workout clothes, load her in the car, drive off.

4:30-5:30 Choi Kwang-Do practice. My one hour of the day totally by myself. Jenna's with Grandma, Sierra's in class, and I can sit and read. Or go to the grocery store unencumbered. How sad my life has become, that I look forward to picking up milk and bread by myself.

5:30 Back home, collect Jenna, plop the girls in front of TV for Spongebob (I'm going for Mom-of-the-Year here), straighten up the house a bit, throw in a load of laundry, more computer time, wait for Rob to call.

6:30-ish Rob calls after his own hectic day. He's on his way home, so it's time to start dinner.

7:00-7:30ish Dinner. More Omnicef. More crying. More battles with the TV during dinner.

7:30 Evening playtime, possibly a ride on the golf cart to soothe a little one's nerves.

8:00 Bathtime for whomever is interested. Another time of day for me to relax and read a book tubside, while the girls splash in the tub. Of course, I must keep an ear and eye out for potential drowning.

8:30 Bedtime for Jenna. Hug her, lay her down.

8:35-9:30 Return for repeated reassuring hugs while Jenna settles in. Attempt to get Sierra ready for bed during the same time, if she hasn't already fallen asleep on the couch watching -- you guessed it -- Spongebob.

9:30 Herd Sierra to bed, or carry her limp body from the couch.

9:30-10:30 Time for me! Wait, is that crying I hear down the hall?

10:30-11:00 Fold that load of laundry, if I remember.

11:00-5:00 This is designated as sleeping time, but the girls have other ideas. Sierra generally sleeps like a rock, unless she's had a bad dream or is puking. Jenna just wants more hugs. Several times. Sleep, kid. It's great, I promise.

It's not just the day-to-day routine that makes parenting a "full-time job." It's the fact that, even when the girls are preoccupied and I'm enjoying a book or surfing the 'net, some catastrophe could erupt somewhere in the house and I have to jump to action. I can't just pack up my book and a soda and huff it to the dock. Someone has to be "available" for the girls at all times. Rob and I must always think about contingency plans ... who stays home tomorrow while Sierra acts like a human furnace in my arms?

We have precious little spontaneity in our activities anymore. Dinner out is no longer staring at each other over a freezer-full of unappetizing food, and deciding to slam the door shut, grab the car keys, and head off to Olive Garden. What time is it? Did Jenna have a nap today? Will she be cranky in the restaurant? How late can Sierra stay up on a school night? Do we have any sitters available? Is the diaper bag packed? Did you explain to Sierra that we can't leave until she potties because it's a long drive to the restaurant? Who fed the baby corn chips? So what if she was hollering? She needs to eat a real dinner. She's rubbing her eyes already? We can't get a sitter now because she'll spend the next hour up and down in her crib, and we can't inflict that on any of our friends. Next Friday? Yeah, maybe I can find a sitter. How about frozen lasagna? It's freezer-burned? It's still edible, right?

Most of all, parenthood requires you to live with one ear cocked, with one nerve always ready to jump, with an emergency diaper kit hidden in the car so that you can fly to the hospital at a moment's notice. It's not just theoretical ... we've done it several times. Nothing changes your perspective on having a child with a high fever than living through her screaming through a spinal tap and coming up positive for meningitis. Nothing changes your perspective on the fragility of life than knowing that you will never, ever sleep soundly again, because that thump in the next room could be the dog flopping down, or it could be the baby hopping out of the crib, padding through the house, trying the doorknob, and heading to the river. Thankfully, that's not happened. Yet.

The deciding word that makes parenthood different from every other phase of adulthood. Yet. It's coming, it is. You just don't know when, or where, or how.