when you're this big, they call you mama

I'm not exactly sure how this happened exactly, but it occured to me just today that I'm not really a housewife anymore. Yes, I know, given that I have the domestic skills of a nomadic sloth, and you could say that I haven't been much of a housewife ever, but still, I've been edged out of my figurehead position and into something a bit more suiting.

I am no longer sahm. I am wahm.

Right now I have two businesses on the go and am the sole income for this family. I am the breadwinner. I am the provider. I am... The Man.

Does this make The Man the Mama?
Perhaps.

While he does not actually lacate, he has more or less smoothly taken over as chief dispenser of food, bandaids, and fun during the six or so hours a day I need right now to take care of business.

When I mentioned to The Man today that I have crossed acronyms, he took a moment to figure out what his possible title would be. He looked fairly aggreived when he said, "does this make me a wad?"

But, no, he would be a sahd. Which he resents not being awarded the 'w'. Status seeking is a hard habit to break your first couple of months out of the workforce I guess. Of course, The Man's arguement is that what is doing at home is actually quite a bit of work, thank you very much, and he resents not having that acknowledged.

Well, duh. (rolls eyes)

Anyhoo, before I get too far down that road, I'm going to change tracks and just talk about me for a change. Let's talk work.

As many of you know, one of the things I do is make stuff. I've been busy revamping my previously published patterns, fancy new covers even, and busy developing a few more for an art and craft show coming up in april. It shall be my in person debut.

Everything I've done so far has been online, making my model's photogenic natures extremely important (they have to be photogenic to make up for my not so hot photography skills).

So far so good with Smootch. She's a natural. Even when I accidently click a picture of her feet while I'm hoisting myself off the ground and she is running off to do whoknowswhat in a stained tee shirt, she still photographs like a freaky vogue model.
The boy, though, has his mother's relationship with the camera. Not so good. Bit stormy sometimes. I know I shouldn't compare the kids, but for every beautiful photo of Smootch easily taken there is one of Birdie looking like the anti-gerber baby.

Observe, a fairly typical shot of Birdie:The absolute best picture we have of him in the last couple of weeks is of his reflection in a garbage can.I'm sure I need not say more.

He's not the worst of the models around here though. I'm afraid I've won that award. I may or not photo well, I can't tell. I know that I can hardly look at a picture of myself - my eyes are hardly ever open and I'm always making a weird face that looks a lot like I've been caught saying, "don't you point that freaking camera at me!" Oh, I'm fat too. But, whatever. The big issue right now is the what-the-heck-have-I-done-to-my-head dilemma.

Between the sketchy beginnings of dreadlocks, and the very odd mullet making regrowth of my post pregnancy hair loss, does anyone even notice the lovely circle skirt and wrap tee I've made?...

...

What? Oh, sorry. I was distracted by the dreaded mullet.

So, that this my new life as a worker bee. I have no idea what to make of my new position around here, but I am pleased that we all get to try out something different. The Man has an opportunity to enjoy a very close and slightly servantile relationship with his precious children, and I can enjoy the freedom of holeing up in our freezing cold basement to huddle over sewing machines. I am so liberated.