There's a container of neon pink Silly Slime dumped in my purse and a half-eaten, squashed strawberry Pop Tart in my jacket pocket. I wear baggy sweats with elastic waists. I know every Raffi song by heart. I LIVE for nap times. My heart pounds for Mr. Rogers -- he likes me just the way I am, and I'll now gladly admit that Barney is my best friend.

At any given moment, I might be carrying a wad of ABC gum ("already been chewed") or the remains of whatever's yucky from a child's mouth -- or nose.
Small children throw up on me regularly. I wash my children's face with spit and my thumb. Show their rashes to ANYONE and EVERYONE who'll look. Wipe their noses with my shirt.

I'm sure you've seen me at the market. I'm the one with the permanent stain on my shoulder from baby spit up. The one with dirty footprints on my shirt from nonstop kicking in the stomach by the child sitting in the grocery cart. The one who didn't have an answer to the (loudly) asked question, "Do we HAVE to eat dog food again tonight like Daddy said we did?"

You've probably seen me at the mall trying to maneuver a stroller with a crying baby who's struggling to get out while I'm chasing the only child in history who can be in 12 places at once. I'm the one carrying the worn-out blankie and Cabbage Patch doll, the one I warned I wouldn't carry. The one shouting, "Don't touch!" I said, "DON'T TOUCH!" The one with the red face after discovering that it is MY child who's using the display toilet at Sears. The one muttering, "I'm NEVER doing this again."