On the corner I linger, watching the 10-year-old girl cross the street. I feign nonchalance by request. My presence mortifies her and yet, she wants me there. Since there’s no crossing guard, she waits till the cars stop at the crosswalk (due to my glare, no doubt) and makes her furtive dash across the street, purple messenger bag beating time on her hip. She jangles a wave and she’s gone; absorbed into the throng of kids, teachers and parents.

I watch for a bit, still. The cars come and go, buses pull to the curb and dispatch a whole generation’s leaders. The other mothers, the moms dressed as I am, in the uniform of the stay-at-home mom, in sweater, jeans and Keds or Danskos, escort their children most, or all of the way to the school. Some kids arrive alone.

As I linger at the corner, I wonder only then what would the rest of the day be, were I a SAHM? What would I return to the house to do? I know if I had a day free I’d clean, maybe bake or cook something, paint or do some other household project, meet a friend for lunch and shop. Or would I? More likely those would be my intentions and I would end up writing or reading every livelong day away.

Instead, as I pivot on my heel at the top of the street, ready to return home, I am the faux SAHM; that woman in the neighborhood who rarely leaves the house, except to walk her child to school. It sounds like something you’d order at an Asian restaurant, doesn’t it? “I’d like the Fo Sahm, an eggroll and a Diet Coke, please.” As I return home I bypass dishes, floors, baking and painting and enter my home office where I work, full time, forgetting there’s a home above and around me, until, by necessity I’m called back to it, to be the mom, the wife, the person who lives there, not just works.

Would I have wanted to be a SAHM? No, no I don’t think so, but it’s always fun to think about what you could do with a day if you were wearing someone else’s Danskos.

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