“I’m Door Holder,” Mireya said proudly. She was holding the door to the garage open for me, demonstrating just how well she’d got this job down.
“You’re doing great,” I noted, as I carried half a dozen things out to the car.
“No, in school. I’m Door Holder.”
“Oh. Sounds like fun.”
She nodded solemnly, the weight of her office heavy on her five-year-old shoulders.
Sierra bounded through the door and headed outside. “I’m Line Leader!”
“In school?” I asked. It takes me a while, but eventually I catch on.
“Yep.”
“Mommy, what are you?”
What am I not, I thought. This morning I started out as Dreaded Time Clock, getting everyone up out of warm bed. Then I was the Waitress, taking breakfast orders. I had a brief stint as Fashion Designer and Style Advisor to my eldest daughter who never knows what she wants to wear and Voice of Seasonal Reason to my youngest who wanted to hit the 40-degree weather in a skirt.
Apparently someone noted my skills with a toaster and microwave, because I moved up the ranks to Head Chef, my breakfast menu featuring the daily favorites: waffles and cereal.
Once the breakfast hit the plates I became the Crisis Manager. Homework not done? Let’s get that crossword done and read that picture book. Issues with lost dice or library books? The hunt is on.
Then after a brief stint as Head Bottle Washer, I was magically transformed into a Dental Assistant and Hair Stylist.
Then I took on my most illustrious job, Transportation Manager. Or, if we were running behind, Jet Pilot.
As I shut the garage door and we pulled out of the driveway, Mireya piped up from the back seat.
“Mommy! I know what you are!” she shouted.
“What sweetie?””
“You’re the caboose!”
That sounds about right.
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