It happened long ago, thank goodness. These days I’m not easily derailed. But back then, I was a young mother, still adjusting. So I stood in our kitchen and smacked myself on the forehead.

“Stupid,” I said, to emphasize each smack. “What am I — June Friggin’ Cleaver?”

My husband raised his shoulders, and then he lowered them. He’d thought I would come back from Girls’ Weekend feeling relaxed.

I told him the trip had been mostly wonderful — reminiscent of my old dorm, but with better food and liquor. We’d stayed up late. We’d giggled about men. We’d spent most of our time in pajamas.

My girlfriends were as gorgeous and funny as they’d been in college. The biggest change was that now they were professionals. A doctor. A lawyer. Something about computers. I was the first to have kids and the only one who stayed home full-time.

So when the conversation turned to work, I didn’t have much to contribute. And when the conversation turned to me, the question was this: “What exactly do you do all day?”

My girlfriends smiled and waited.

There were plenty of things I could have told them.

I was, in that moment, the sole representative for stay-at-home-mothers across the planet.

But the first thing I said was, “Glrrrk.”

I couldn’t think of any actual words, or even images that could morph into words. My life in review, flashing through my brain just then, was a muddy blur of feeling. Exhaustion, worry, joy. Baby smells and crying. Grossing out. Sleeping in. Peace, love, dopiness.

From that incomprehensible soup, one question burbled to the surface: Oh, God. What DO I do all day?

And then I mumbled something about housework.

Thus, the smacking.

“Like it’s all sparkling toilets and shiny floors around here!” I moaned. My husband backed against the kitchen wall. “I mean, what a dumb thing to say. Our house isn’t even very clean!”

Continued silence from my husband.

“And the worst part?” I asked. (No response.) “The worst part is that I still don’t know what I should have said. Am I ‘shaping America’s future?’ Am I ‘molding the leaders of tomorrow?’”

My husband lifted his eyebrows.

“Doubtful!” I shouted. I plopped onto a stool. “And…I hate arts and crafts!”

The kitchen was quiet for a moment.

“But you know what?” I continued. “I’m going to figure this out. Maybe — what do you think of this? — maybe I should keep a log.”

My husband laughed, because “log” is a funny word.

I resolved to write a record of how I spent my time. That way, if anyone else asked what I did all day, I’d be ready.

“Honey,” I said, “thanks for helping me work through this.”

He gave me a solemn thumbs-up.

The log didn’t last long. It turned out to be a pain. “Changed six diapers. Paid two bills. Tried and failed to find the mustard.” That’s just not good reading.

But, with a heightened sense of awareness, I started noticing certain patterns. For instance: I kept the baby’s vaccinations up to date. I spent lots of time making sure she didn’t fall from slides. When she coughed during mealtimes, I’d lunge forward, prepared to Heimlich.

So I filed those things under the category of, “I Keep the Baby Alive.”

Also, my brain was constantly simulating danger scenarios — all on its own and despite my best efforts to shut it down. For example: What if I accidentally left the baby at Walmart? What if she fell into the alligator pit at the zoo? What if she just EVAPORATED while I was several states away, wearing pajamas with my college girlfriends?

I filed those worries as, "I Play Wargames."

Many activities fell under this heading: “I Do Things That Make the Baby Smarter And Me Stupider.” (Bubbles. “The Wheels on the Bus.” The dreaded arts and crafts.) And as a counterbalance, there was, “I Try to Keep My Intellect Intact.” (Laughing. Reading. Oprah.)

Plus, I balanced our tiny budget, and I cleaned our tiny house. I found lost things and fed everyone and remembered appointments. I worried when the car made a weird noise. I figured out which store had the cheapest milk. And, ever since the baby, I’d been working on my marriage instead of just blissfully wallowing in it.

What did I do all day? Glrrrk! The more I tried to categorize, the further my brain slid back to Mud Mode. To this day, I have never answered the question succinctly or thoroughly. But, I have learned these things, at least:

1) There are other questions besides, "What?" One is, "Why?" Another is, "How?" I don't necessarily have answers for those, either.

2) Sometimes, the bigness and strangeness of a job — any job — can defy explanation.

Now, my college girlfriends have kids of their own, and some of the kids are little, with their best arts-and-crafts days still ahead. If, during our next Girls' Weekend, someone asks for my thoughts on motherhood, I will go with my original answer — the one that tied my tongue all those years ago.

Exhaustion, worry, joy. Peace, love, dopiness.

And my friends will know just what I mean.

Heather Heath Chapman is a writer and a mother of two. You can reach her at heatherchapman1@me.com.