The Many Hats a Mother Wears

I've made a habit of naming and renaming myself depending on the task at hand. I'm sure every schizophrenic does the same. Right now, I'm Mother Cleaver (as in June, for you youngins), and I've tidied up the living room, folded a freshly dried batch of laundry and pulled some warm chocolate chip cookies out of the oven. Did I mention dinner's already finished? Upon sniffing a particularly rank diaper, I don my "Exterminator Cap". If it's misbehaving, on goes the presidential tie as I fold my hands in my "Executive Disciplinarian" role. I've even taken to naming my husband. And it's "I wish the damned plumber would hurry up and fix this" if it's a leaky faucet. Or, if he's mowing the lawn my favorite past time is gawking at the "Hot Gardener" in my yard.
Yesterday, after whipping up a batch of frozen waffles, packing lunches and kissing my kindergartner goodbye, I traded in my tiara and my apron for a feather duster and a head wrap...The House Cleaner had arrived.
This afternoon, my two year old, better known as Teeny Houdini, climbed into her crib (yeah, you heard me, keep reading) and practiced her death defying jump-leaps across the span of a 42 inch mattress.
"Hey, Ana," I mused,"try not to knock all your teeth out."
Obviously, I was not wearing my "Doting Mother" headdress.
And then, the Teeny Houdini (who recently began speaking in complete sentences) paused, turned to meet my indifferent gaze and declared, "I know."
And, which hat do I wear now?????

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