Real Moms need Real Dads. There is nothing more humbling in the world than realizing that not only does he help you out in ways so subtle you don't even notice, but sometimes, he does things better than you do. So get over yourself and let him handle the baths once in a while. Bite your tongue when he tells you what they had for breakfast. Look the other way when he takes 20 minutes, 10 wipes, and covers his nose with his shirt when he's changing a diaper. He can handle it. Let him.
Real Moms sometimes hoard the chocolate. The kids know the dark chocolate is mine. Step away from the Dove, and no one gets hurt.
Real Moms spend a lot of time in the car. If that isn't an excuse for your music habit, I don't know what is. iTunes cards are like crack. (Don't complain about my singing, either. It prevents road rage.)
Real Moms like to be appreciated. I used to think it was odd when Mr W would have the kids say "thanks for dinner, Mom" but it's nice. Even if I wind up scraping too much of it into the trash can, it's sweet that they say thanks, for a job that you really can't get a break from.
and speaking of breaks....
Real Moms need some time to themselves, where there are no demands, no noses/asses to wipe, and no interruptions. Impossible? Maybe. But five minutes will do if that's all you can get.
Real Moms are still real girls. I can remember exactly when it happened...I was talking to a friend of mine, and he said something about how he'd hand his wife a wad of cash and point her in the direction of the nearest Ulta. I felt a little green, as I was still hauling Audrey around and down to the minimum amount of all things girly. I think I was at the mall the next day, GodMACzilla reborn. (You know it's bad when the Clinique lady not only recognizes you, but knows your daughter's name.)
Real Moms still look. And like to be looked at. Oh, yes. Errands are a little less tedious when there is eye candy in the produce aisle...at work...the coffee shop. On the flip side, it sure puts a little spring in your step when you get The Look. You know the one, the one that reminds you you have a pulse, and it just started to race.
Real Moms sometimes go hide in the bathroom. For whatever reason, it seems to be the only locked door children get; they understand it means privacy. I will admit that sometimes I go in there, not to do any business, but to take a break. I might read. I might cry. I might be putting myself in time-out.
Real Moms love all their kids. I have a coworker who once asked me about how you find the love for the other kids (she has one baby, and she's mad about him). I told her you love them all, equally; you might not like them all the time, but you do love them. They are all different, different strengths/different weaknesses; you might feel more warmly about certain qualities than others depending on your mood, but at the end of the day, you still love them. At least that's how it works for me.
Real Moms like it when people remember their names. It's fun the first few times someone calls you "<insert child's name>'s Mom." I'm over it. There are a couple of my husband's colleagues that I don't see very often, and their stock shoots up every time I do see them, because they remember my name. (And use it in sentences that don't involve potty training.)
Real Moms like sex. I know, I'm echoing Chantal here, but, really: Why not? It got you to the Mom-stage to begin with....you need to remember how to do it so that when they are finally gone, you can resume your earlier fervor. And have a heart attack.
Real Moms accept their faults. I apologize to the kids when I am out of line, and that does happen from time to time. (More than I care to admit.) They need to know that no one is perfect, we all have moments when we cross over from "plain unreasonable" to "fucking insane" and are no worse for it.
That's all I have to say for now. I have to get the kids in the car to go to aikido.
And I need to find my iPod...