TAKE THIS QUIZ: Do you go to the office in your fuzzy slippers and Einstein hair? When speaking on the office telephone, do you put clients on hold, telling them, "Mommy has to go potty"? Do you mute the phone during conference calls to change a diaper? Does your oven timer dictate when it's time to take a break?

If you said yes to one of these questions, you're a work-at-home mom. You've set aside the fast track to make little tracks in the sand. Your children rise up—much too early—and call you, and call you, and call you.

I'D WORKED in public relations before my husband, Jeff, and I moved to Colorado—and before my daughter, Caitlin, came along. Since my firm needed time to replace me, I was able to finish some critical projects with a computer and a phone from our spare bedroom in our Denver apartment. After learning there were practically no high-tech PR firms in Colorado, I decided to go into business for myself, subleasing my services in public relations to companies directly. When we moved into a house, the family room became my office. After Caitlin's birth, I shaved off a few clients and now put in only 15-20 hours per week. It's been a tremendous blessing to work at home and play with her on my coffee breaks. The hard part is gaining momentum after two hours of "Ga" and "Whasis?"

My ideal day starts at 5:00 a.m. My plan is to rise quickly, take some coffee to my office, and put away two hours of work before Caitlin starts calling for breakfast. My hard-working husband, Jeff, leaves for work at six. Therein lies my problem: the garage door opener. It sounds like a train coming through the floor in the baby's room and, unless Caitlin is in the middle of a lovely dream, it shatters her sleep, and my morning is lost.

Unaware of this crisis, Jeff drives to his quiet office, where he sits for more than 10 minutes at a time, talks on the phone without his hair being pulled, and eats his lunch without bending to clean peanut butter off the floor. Meanwhile, I've vacated my post at the computer to assure the baby that the garage door opener won't eat her. Then I do something really brave: I take her to the office.

There's good news and bad news. The good news is, I discover it's not necessary to spend precious family dollars on the purchase of toys. Caitlin would much rather empty the contents of my garbage can than play in her $50 bouncy thing. I keep a basket of toys on the floor to lure her away from the file drawers, but no, she'd rather empty them, too. The bad news is, I realize later she's gnawed on the article I was supposed to copy and fax to my client.

It's time for a reprieve, so we charge to the kitchen for breakfast. Caitlin goes in the highchair with some Cheerios while I make something to eat. At 10 months, she's too advanced for Cheerios, so she uses them instead for a physics experiment. She drops them one at a time over the side of her highchair, watches them fall to the floor, then declares, "Uh-Oh." I used to teach aerobics at my church, but with all the bending I do picking up Cheerios, I no longer need outside exercise.

To distract Caitlin from the Cheerios experiment, I rush to warm her oatmeal and sit down to spoon it in her mouth. Never mind that my stomach has yet to be filled; the safest course of action is to take care of the baby first. She takes one bite of her fruit-sweetened cereal and purses her lips. Then she shakes her head furiously from side to side. I try giving her a jar of fruit. She shakes her head again. Nope. A piece of bread? Yes! I thought I'd finally won when she ate five bites in a row. I knew I'd lost, though, when she began using the crusts for the same physics experiment she tried with the Cheerios. More bending.

Twenty minutes, then 30 whiz by. I've picked up about 45 Cheerios, 4 crusts of bread, and 2 bottles off the floor. It's time for Caitlin to get down and play while Mommy attempts to eat. The toys again. She sits amid a mass of playthings that would color the dreams of most children for years. No, she wants to play with the remote control and pull all the videos out of the television cabinet. "No! No! No!" Three times I've tried to read an article in a trade journal and three times I've stopped to discipline her. I sit down once more to eat my cold buttered toast and drink my lukewarm coffee, and I've forgotten which article I was reading.

The article and the dishes can wait as I crawl onto the living room floor to help Caitlin build a tower of blocks. Proud of the progress I'm making, I'm astonished when she spots my work and deliberately and with sheer joy sends my masterpiece crashing to the floor. I look at the clock and realize it's time for her nap, only by now I'm having so much fun I don't want to put her down. We trudge upstairs and pull out a book to read, then down she goes, her stuffed cow in one arm and her opposite thumb in her mouth. If I'm lucky, I've got about two hours of undisturbed work time.

I can't afford to waste a billable minute, so I walk past the dirty breakfast dishes and head to the office to book another press tour. I spend 30 minutes checking e-mail, responding to messages, and reestablishing my train of thought on yesterday's progress with the press tour. My computer crashes, and I spend 45 minutes on the phone with technical support configuring my "BIOS setup." In another half-hour I'm making wild progress when I hear on the baby monitor, "Ah da da da. Ma Ma. Ga ga ga." Translation: "I've had a wonderful nap, Mom, and I'm ready for lunch." My two hours are gone.

Since I know it takes at least 45 minutes to regain speed on an interrupted project, I try to ignore the baby noises. She'll go back to sleep. "Ga Ga ga ga ga." She sounds pretty awake. "Just 10 more minutes," I urge in the direction of the monitor. It's no use. Caitlin always wins. The work will still be there when she goes down for her afternoon nap. Right now, I have to go hug that baby.

I'VE NEVER FELT guilty for trading my panty hose and pumps for jeans and sneakers. I love being a full-time mom. I'm on call 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I get no vacation, no sick days, no personal time off. It requires a strong command of my native language, consistent organization, and skillful diplomacy. Strength training is a plus. No part-time hours. No overtime pay. Salary: zero. Benefits: unspeakable. It's the highest calling on earth.

But as I try to reconcile the needs of two jobs in a 24-hour day—one for pay and the other for love— I need to be reminded that this double duty's for a good reason. I'm discovering my family room office is no less a mission field than the streets of Calcutta. I know God's called me to my current vocation because of the people I meet along the path, such as the client with whom I shared my faith because he was intrigued by my volunteer work at my church.

Working mostly from home, I talk to people more through e-mail than in person. Except for occasional meetings, I rarely leave my home office. That doesn't mean God uses me any less. I cling to the same thing Jesus' disciples embraced. While their vocation—fishing—wasn't glamorous, Christ used their work to shape them into people he could use in other, more life-changing labor. They learned, as I'm learning, that what we do, who we are, and where we live are not by coincidence.

I'VE STAYED UP way past my bedtime. Caitlin is sleeping soundly, and I know which of us will wake first if I don't get to bed soon. I just have to peek into her crib one more time. Standing, again, in my fuzzy slippers (I did have clothes on earlier in the day), I look down at Caitlin and watch her chest rise and fall with each breath. My trance is broken by the jarring and whirring of the fax machine in the next room. She sputters; she turns; I cringe; she rolls over and goes back to sleep. Whew! Just another day in the life of a work-at-home mom.

DONNA R. CARLSON is a freelance writer, public relations specialist, and Web content developer who lives with her family in Colorado.

Copyright © 1999 by the author or Christianity Today International/Today's Christian Woman magazine. For reprint information call 630-260-6200 or e-mail tcwedit@todayschristianwoman.net.
May/June 1999, Vol. 21, No. 3, Page 26