Wannabe MILF

I have succeeded in joining the ranks of SAHM's. I get-to-be a SAHM: most mothers have to go back to work and their poor little ones get sent to Abuelita's. I should be happy and embracing this most blessed time in my life. A time I will never forget. I will cherish it forever and I get to lovingly watch my Little One (LO) grow up big and strong. Seems glorious right? Right. I have 'given-up' my career as a hot flight attendant to be the beautiful, put-together, organized, coupon-clipping, deal-snagging, DIY-ing, relaxed, fun, mentally-stimulating, exercising, organic gardening, landscaping, baking, home-cooked mealing, lunch bagging, play-dating, encouraging, motivating, decorating, obsessively cleaning house with fresh-baked cookies and daisies on the table wife, lover and finally mother.
Right.
So far I've gotten the wife and mother part down. But honestly that was the easy part. Beautiful wedding and I'm a flight attendant so really up til last year I was a part-time wife, gone 3 & 1/2 days a week. And well you know how the lover->mother thing goes. Yadda-Yadda-Yadda and then 8 & 1/2 months later: Mommy. I've also got the "relaxed" in front of the TV thing, and dead daisies on the table I snatched from my front pre-landscaped yard the former owners of this house blessed me with...which are of course now overgrown and would-be-dying if the rain would just let up.
The jig is up. Being a SAHM is not as easy as those Mad Men-esque chicks make it out to be. Seriously. Maybe I missed out on the automatic down-load of self-motivation, diligence and invisible drive that mothers get once that baby pop's out of your HooHa. Fill me in. Was there a transmission that I didn't get at the hospital? There must be a download-able program that details the how, when, and yes-you-can attitude that I need to fulfill the above SAHM qualities. Because, people, I am not feeling it. Don't get me wrong. I love my Hubby and adorable LO. As much as a lizard loves the sun.
With a job in the big girl world though I have deadlines, presentations, meetings, interviews, people who care what I look like (which makes me care how I look), emails to return, and as a flight attendant: luggage to pack, beauty to attain, places to go, planes to fly, people to serve, seatbelt's to buckle, trash to collect, and a clock that I remained a loyal slave to.
Now though? I have a baby to feed. And honestly all she cares about is whether there is milk flowing into her mouth and a jar of baby food to eat soon after. She really doesn't care if I nurse and play with her in bed all day and wear the same spit-up laden clothing I wore three days ago. Or if my shirt has wrinkles on it, my hair is slapped back in a pony-tail - wet, or the counters have dishes from the last 5 days piled up. She also doesn't tell me that she only wants organic home grown, steamed and gently pureed sweet potatoes. She doesn't care if her little baby nursery has a beautiful hand painted tree with butterflies dancing around her walls. Honestly, she just wants a safe place to sleep. Maybe someday she'll look back and say "Aw, my mother truly loved me and spent countless hours willingly creating a calming atmosphere for me to rest my little body and grow up big and strong." Maybe. Maybe when I'm dead and the family is looking through old pictures trying to find decent ones of me where I show some semblance of photographic qualities.
I digress. My point as I'm hoping you can relate is that as a SAHM no one is standing over your shoulder wondering why you've been sitting at your computer on Friend-Face or some such "social-networking" site for 2 hours all day. If you don't eat breakfast it doesn't lower your billable potential, and if you skip lunch you don't get paid more, you just get hungry. And if dinner isn't ready when the Dear Hubby gets home, it's okay since he's really (truly happy), fine, ecstatic to be eating take-out/Burger King again. Not being sarcastic. My Dear one loves the fast food world. Even though I am an excellent cook, the appeal of a stuffed jalapeño and cheddar steakhouse wins every time. With fries and Coke. Medium? Yes, please. I guess you could say I'm lucky/blessed. My hubby doesn't care where the food on the table is from. My labors of love could be slaving away in the kitchen all day or driving across the street for Panda Express. He also doesn't care if there is a couch full of folded laundry that I haven't put away yet (it's only been 3 days this time). Or if there isn't a clean bowl for cereal ...he'll just use a large cup. What if there are papers, bills, books, bibs, dirty dishes, breast pump parts and pieces of rice on the table? Not a problem. We'll just clear off one of our 4 occupied tray tables and brush off the crumbs from my breakfast. We're very resourceful that way.
Here I am. Struggling with an idealized SAHM-atitutde and floundering haplessly about with my newly acquired +20lb handles of love and no idea of how to get back into the groove. How do I give myself a goal when no one knows if I meet it except me? In one day I can wake up early, eat a healthy breakfast, go for a power walk, go to Bible study, eat a healthy lunch and come home to start dinner, start and finish all laundry, sanitize the kitchen and sweep all the rooms in the house plus the quality time I'd spend feeding/playing/stimulating the mind of my beautiful little baby. Or I can sleep in till 10am, snack on breakfast bars and chips, watch TV and movies all day (plus the obligatory time I'd spend feeding/entertaining my beautiful little baby) and honestly no one would be the wiser.
Where does this internal drive come from?
How do make this Stay At Home Mom thing into a job where I can be productive? Because right now if I don't want to be productive... Shoot. I don't have to. But, do not despair, I will figure this out. Because while I don't want to be a Stepford wifey/mother type, I have tasted the productive, being hot and feeling good about myself side of life and I hereby resolve to NOT be that mom that walks around the mall in slippers, leggings and a baggy sweatshirt. I wannabe a M.I.L.F. A productive one at that.