It's October and that means I am a married single parent.

I do not enjoy single parenting.

Yes, I am married. But hubby's off on one of his many, many, MANY business trips and I'm back to doing all of the daily stuff by myself. October is going to be a busy month for Daddy's travel schedule. Any parent will tell you that parenting is one REALLY hard job. And when Chris is gone, there is no break for me. No coffee break, no sneaking off for a cigarette and a chat with the gal in the next cubicle. I don't even get to go to the bathroom uninterrupted; Megan can't let Mommy go off on her own for more than 6 seconds, so she usually toddles in to keep me company while I'm trying to pee. So, when Chris is gone, the routines really wear on me.

The worst part is the loneliness. I run into other parents at preschool drop-off, I chat with the moms in the parent-child classes I teach, I connect with a friend via late-night text messages. But aside from these fleeting interactions, I literally go for days without having a single meaningful conversation with an adult. I absolutely understand why solitary confinement could be considered torture.

Of course, I love my kids and chatting, playing, singing, dancing and just being silly with them. But, at the end of the day, I need to vent, share the stories about the silly moments, discuss something that has nothing to do with child-rearing. In the absence of these things, I engage in self-destructive behavior to ease the loneliness, like getting sucked into computer usage (as this post is case in point), mindless television, and eating...and eating...and eating. I do all of this to put off doing all of the evening chores without benefit of a companion to share the work and a few laughs. Then I go to bed too late. And then I'm sleep deprived and even more grumpy the next day. When does Daddy get home again? And how much caffeine is too much?

The problem is exacerbated by not having help from family; mine lives 6 hours away and no one in my husband's family can help me out, so I'm on my own. If we could invent some form of instantaneous travel, my mom could help me put the kids in the tub and send them to bed. Beam me up, Grandma!

October is not going to be fun, since Chris's travel schedule is packed. There is a silver lining; thank goodness for the theater tickets to break up the monotony a bit. (Thanks, hon!)

Okay, I'll stop whining now. I certainly don't like hearing it from my kids, so you probably don't like reading it from me. :)

It's official; I am a suburban housewife.

There are lots of clues to my current identity. It could be the prune-like fingertips from washing more sippy cups than I care to imagine. Perhaps it's the package of baby wipes that is constantly on my person. Of course, there's the mommy wardrobe of t-shirts and yoga pants. The most obvious sign, of course, is the appendage hanging off each leg (i.e. the children).

Last night I took this role one step further. I hosted a Tupperware party. Yes, Tupperware...those plastic containers your grandmother used to store her cakes in? Well, I cleaned the house, served some hors d'oeuvres, made some apple cider hot toddies (yum), and let a stranger into my house to sell my friends some plastic containers.

Okay, perhaps I am oversimplifying things a bit. Getting the house ready was actually a huge challenge, since the kids manage to make enormous messes in under 3.5 seconds. And after dumping the artichoke dip on the floor TWICE, I was forced to serve a modified version of it, since I had already used up some of the ingredients. Plus, despite the grandmotherly stigma, Tupperware does have some pretty cool products that are darn useful in the kitchen (love my Fridge Smart containers!).

But, I'll admit, when I was younger and dreaming of someday owning a home and raising children, this wasn't quite what I had in mind. Yet, here I found myself, completing the puzzle and adding "hosted Tupperware Party" to my mommy resume. And sad, but true, when the party lady was talking about how great the dishtowels are, I already had one slung over my shoulder, as I usually do.

I had to; it's the suburban housewife uniform.