There are certain members of my family who believe that I don’t work.

By the time he had driven to his place of employment, powered up his computer and had his first cup of coffee

I had dressed, fed and organised seven children,

done two loads of washing

broken up several fights

folded up one lot of clothes from the dryer

and put another load in

blown two snotty noses, dosed three sick children up with medication

sent some to school

cleaned up the post breakfast mess

mopped up two sausage dog ‘accidents’

and started packing a bag for hospital

so the children I was taking with me had enough to do, enough to eat and enough to wear considering all weather options.

I managed to squeeze in getting dressed in there too.

By the time he went for his lunch break

I had driven an hour into town,

and around the full car park of the hospital four times

dealt with one hard faced woman, who drove around my bus, that was pulled to the side, indicator on,

to steal my parking space

and then refused to look at me when I asked why she had done that.

I parked over a kilometre away and walked with two four year olds,

one who wanted an explanation of all of life’s mysteries

and one who wanted me to pick her up and carry her because her legs were too sore

plus two bags

in the rain

to get to an appointment so that Ivy could be re-accessed, checked out and given more supplies

and then

have heated discussions with a doctor who

now doesn’t like me very much.

During that time,

I made sure the children were fed, that they were not thirsty and

I took them to the bathroom.

Several times – because toilet breaks are much more exciting in the hospital, apparently.

I tried to balance talking with the health professionals with overseeing and disciplining an overzealous boy child’s behaviour and comforting the girl.

By the time his lunch break was over

I had walked back to the bus,

juggling two  bags,

carrying one sad girl and holding the hand of the boy, who suddenly thought he would run at things like a bull in a china shop.

While he was in a meeting,

I put petrol in the car

and made it with minutes to spare

before the other kids started arriving home from school.

I put in another load of washing and then drove one child to football and another to drama.

While he was helping me out, by returning to the hospital, after his day at the office,

to collect some medication that Ivy needed and that I forgot

and then picking up post activity children

I cooked dinner and organised five other children to bath.

I managed clean up time (which is a dedicated time our family has before dinner to pack away and tidy)

and allocated chores.

As he was walking through the door, I had just put on another load of washing, taken a load from the dryer and put a wet load in.

I’m not saying that he doesn’t work.

He does.

He works hard and  very long hours

and he is the only income earner at the moment – this is a huge issue for me

and I’m not saying he never helps out because he does that too.

What I am saying is that I work too

and that motherhood is so undervalued.

If I were employed to do all of those things – carer, nurse, counselor, porter, driver, chef, patient advocate, laundress, cleaner,

how much would I be worth?

When you are a Mum, it just becomes an expectation that you will do all of these with very little recognition and indeed disdain from some people.

His insinuation that I have little understanding of how stressful his workday is may be true

but I understand stress

and I am working.

What’s more is that most days I do it without complaint.