Within those descriptions fall the rest of my identities: housekeeper, accountant, cook, chauffer, garbage woman, insane asylum escapee.
And after Buttercup has gone to bed and The Husband has left for his midnight shift, I stare wistuffly at the television for about five seconds before sighing, turning it off, and firing up my laptop.
That's when I become my secret identity: I am a writer. And because I am a wife and mother first, my writing time to precious. Books I bought years agoare still unread. Television shows I love are left to go on without me. And sleep? Yeah, I sneak that in when I can.
I know how hard it is to balance it all. And how much harder it is to give of that time to a friend. Even when that friend is offering promises of pink ponies for reading her manuscript.
I'm sure Jeanne and Mercedes didn't expect me to follow through. I am also sure that neither one realized I was referring to Pinkie Pie and her little plastic skirt and not the pink ponies little girl's dreams are made of.
But I was.
P.S.: No actual ponies were dyed pink or mailed via the US Postal Service for the sake of writing this blog post.
P.S.S.: Buttercup was plenty pissed that her Pinkie Pie's "twins" hadn't come home to stay. I have promised more ponies from Santa to make up for Mama not boxing up said plastic ponies "before" she got home from school and we trekked off to the post office. She has graciously agreed to my terms.
P.S.S.S.: Now... I have to talk to "Santa" and let him know what the deal is with the new plastic pony infestation.