I keep hearing the voice of Chris Farley in “Tommy Boy” knocking around my head.

Tommy: Hey, what’s your name?
Helen: Helen.
Tommy: That’s nice, you look like a Helen. Helen, we’re both in sales. Let me tell you why I suck as a sales man. Let’s say I go into a guy’s office, let’s say he’s even remotely interested in buying something. Well then I get all excited. I’m like Jojo the idiot circus boy with a pretty new pet. Now the pet is my possible sale. Hello there pretty little pet, I love you. And then I stoke it, and I pet it, and I massage it. Hehe I love it, I love my little naughty pet, you’re naughty. And then I take my naughty pet and I go
[makes ripping noises as he tears apart the roll]
Tommy: Uuuuuuh. I killed it. I killed my sale. And that’s when I blow it. That’s when people like us have gotta forge ahead, Helen. Am I right?
Helen: God, you’re sick.

Let me tell you why I SUCK as a stay-at-homer.

Seriously, I suck at it. I make way too many mistakes.

Yesterday I left Cormac lying in his boppy on the couch (mistake no. 1 - infant elevation) while I went to take a shower (mistake no.2 - solo hygiene attempt). Owen was in the other room, sitting on his potty (no. 3 - wishful thinking) and trying to earn a sticker for his chart (OK, valiant effort). Midway through my conditioner (no. 4 - vanity) the momdar goes off, and sure enough, the baby is laying on the floor, screaming absolute bloody murder, and the toddler is sitting nonchalantly on the sofa watching television (no. 5 - he can work the DVD player).

This morning I vowed I wouldn’t be so naive or careless (no. 6 - vowing not to be naive is naive) so I carefully wrapped Mac and placed him in his cradle and then closed the door (no. 7 - temptation) and then put a child-safety doorknob cover thing on the handle (no. 8 - more temptation) so Owen couldn’t get in. I made him stay in the bathroom while I took my shower, instead, so as to ensure that he didn’t get into any mischief (no. 9 - the loo is mischief central). Next thing I know he’s saying, “Someone should clean up this mess,” and trying to brush away the gallons of water that are spilling over the edge of the sink and pooling on the bathroom floor (no. 10).

We tried to go to Ikea today (no. 11, 12 and 13 right there). I was going to ship a package (no. 14 - combining trips) but forgot the packing slip (no. 15 - not prepared) so I had to turn around to go home and get it (no. 16 - adding time to an excursion). I left the boys in the locked car in the driveway (no. 17) so I could run in and print it (no. 18 - the wee bell elves in it hate me) only the printer was out of black ink, so I gave up. We finally made it to Ikea but there were cranes — giant, boy-magnet machinery — blocking off the family parking so I parked by the as-is tent instead (no. 19 - in view of construction site). I told Owen he’d be able to play with the toys (no. 20 - promising things). On the way, he managed to scale various furniture installations and display units (no. 21 - no control) and actually tumbled into a big wire bin of pillows, becoming lodged in their discounted masses (no. 22). Mac started screaming bloody murder around the lingonberry-cookie section (no. 23 - public nuisance) but I steadfastly soldiered on, trying to maneuver 4 chic folding chairs into the cart while simultaneously wearing the baby in the pouch (no. 24 - no arm clearance). I managed to make it to the check out in under two hours (bonus points) but told Owen sharply that we would not be dining Chez Ikea (no. 25 - do not cross the beams), which resulted in a sort of Whine Plateau that nicely complimented the ongoing Bloody Murder Suite that Cormac was conducting (no. 26 - ongoing public nuisance). I waggled the cart all the way to the car (more bonus points) but not without three distinct swear words (no. 27) in public (no. 28) and within earshot of the tykes (no. 29). I loaded the baby into the steaming hot car. Desperate from the heat, I stripped off my jersey 3/4-sleeve shirt, which dripped with the sweat of a screaming baby, and tossed it in the backseat (no. 30 - removal of clothing before perimeter is secured). I turned around to find Owen hatless (no. 31) and eating Nemo Fruit Snacks (no. 32 — we had begun our trip with a hat and without Nemo Fruit Snacks).

I realized the hat would need to be found. A few more expletives and some blue language escaped my mouth (no. 33), some of which required a grammatical explanation (no. 34). I scooped Mac back out of the carseat, where he had begun to fall asleep (no. 35 - waking a sleeping baby) and hurried the both of them back across the parking lot and into the store with my torso clad only in a nursing camisole and my hair slipping free of its bobby pin (no. 36 - giving mothers a bad name). Frazzled, I passed the same woman who had earlier inquired as to the comfort and quality of my baby sling and attempted to give her a sisters-in-arms kind of smile but ended up looking a little like a stroke victim instead (no. 37 - trying to socialize while in escalated mom mode). Walking briskly, I wove and wefted (wait. wefted?) through the shopalopolis, holding Owen by the hand and firing inquiries at him in a harried voice (no. 38), all of which he answered with a plaintive “I don’t know, Mommy!”

Finally, we arrived, standing in front of the bin of red discounted pillows he had earlier treated as a ball pit (no. 39 - returning to the scene of a fun crime), his green sun hat in plain view. I didn’t have any hands free to grab it so I had to squaggle my hand free of Owen’s grip (no. 40 - relinquishing the prisoner) and attempt to reach in without dumping the baby in, too — but at last, success. Our return walk was far more sedate, though not without a note of urgency, because it had been many hours since our last meal (no. 41) and I refused for a second time Owen’s request for Ikea’s chicken fingers meal (no. 42 - denial of claim while proof of claim is smellable) because I had done so earlier and was trying to be consistent (no. 43 - hobgoblin).

And then we got in the car and drove home, Mac screaming all the way , me trying to remember how to breathe deeply and driving probably a little too fast on 695 (no. 42 - reckless op) with the radio turned up probably a little too loud (no points off, because it was classical). We finally arrived home and collapsed and I vowed never, ever, ever to leave my house again.

As I tallied up that morning’s mistakes — 42 by 1 p.m., many more to follow — it occurred to me that I am just so not cut out for this. I mean, seriously, really awful at it. I forge ahead anyway (am I right, Helen?) but I know when I’m outnumbered. Whoever’s keeping score is sure to assign me a failing grade for the course.