Sometimes I’m just plain bored as a stay-at-home mom. Am I allowed to admit that? I wake up in the morning and dread the moment my husband shuts the door behind him and goes to work. The bed needs to be made. My son smells faintly of a dirty diaper. My dog looks at me with eyes that beg for a long walk outside. And my hair is greasy. I need to take a shower and dry my hair but must figure out how to do it before my son starts crying and my dog starts moaning. I need to sterilize his bottles, make his baby mush, empty the dishwasher, feed the dog. Eventually, we make it outside. I push the stroller, juggling the umbrella with the dog leash, and often end up at the Portugese coffee shop on the corner to treat myself to a caffe latte, or lait russe as they call it here (why can’t they just say “cafe’ au lait” — we’re all speaking French here, aren’t we?). My son’s appetite and meal plan dictate the hours of my day. Eventually, after an hour’s spin, we head home. I latch him into his high-chair seat and spoon-feed him mushed delicacies. Today my multi-tasking back-fired and left Mr. Big Eyes with a swollen lip. I set him up on a mattress on the floor, surrounded by several of his toys. I turned my back on him to attempt to write an email. The next thing I heard was a large “boom” — the sound of his head hitting the hardwood floor. His lip suddenly looked puffier than usual. He shrieked from fear and, presumably, pain. What a horrible mother I am. Not exactly hands-on I seemed to prove to myself today.

I sense he’s bored, too. He’s very polite and doesn’t usually let on to it. But sometimes he seems to kick his legs in frustration. I notice him figuring out how to alter the rhythms of some of the steadying games that, in theory, are to meant calm him or, at least, occupy him. He’s bored of the electronic swing, and now puts his foot on the pole that supports it to keep himself from swinging back and forth. Today he reached successfully overhead for the mobile that has been swinging over his crib for the past four months. He grabbed it with force, preventing it from completing a circle, making the Beethoven symphony that normally chimes rhymically screech to a cacaphonic halt. And he cackled as he watched the mobile struggle to move forward. As if he had finally managed to shut the damn thing up.

How do I prevent myself from going crazy and only playing with the baby all day long? I love him more than anything I’ve ever loved. But I fear I’m not as great an entertainer as he deserves. Is my mind turning into the mush I feed him daily?