My breakfast fantasy: After a leisurely run in the warm sunshine, I’d enjoy a scrumptious almond butter jar of pumpkin oatbran, topped with apples and granola, brought to me on a tray carried by my perfectly groomed children in adorable matching “I Love My Mommy” sweaters and pleated skirts.

My breakfast reality: After cursing my alarm, Jillian’s Level 2 Shred and my freezing cold garage treadmill, I enjoyed my oats with Rapunzel while a jam covered, pajama wearing Lulu bellowed for me to let her watch “Max and Ruby” and an equally unkempt Gigi checked out magazine centerfolds.

My midday outing fantasy: In a tradition for the ages, I’d take Gigi and Lulu to the beautifully decorated State Capitol to sit on the marble steps and revel in the echos of the choirs and harpists beautifully filling the rotunda, as onlookers marveled at my well-behaved children and our beauty and grace.

My midday outing reality: We arrived to the State Capitol with no change for the parking meters, pouring down rain and a packed lobby of wet smelly people, who’d brought their McDonald’s to eat while they watched.  The girls had no interest in the harpists or choirs but were relentless in wanting to play with a toy train that we were scolded for going to close to by a sharp-tongued state worker.  Lulu also begged and pleaded to ride the elevator, at which time she played the H1N1 infected buttons like Jerry Lee Lewis tickling ivories and proceeded to put her hands in her mouth afterwards like they had been dipped in chocolate.  We get sick so often because we are vegan…right….

My crafting fantasy: The girls and I blissfully returned home to make beautiful, delicate green origami Christmas trees which we lined our mantle with, after which the girls said, “Thank you, Mommy, for such a fun day!”

My crafting reality: We traced each of our hands, again.  Gigi and Lulu fought over a pencil until Lulu ran from the room crying, her too big Christmas pants fell down to her ankles and she tripped out of them crying, “Where’d my pants go?”  She returned just in time to have me finishing cutting out the last pieces and responded by saying, “Don’t cut me, Mommy!!!”

My dinner fantasy: A well-trained and critically heralded chef prepares me a massaged kale salad with a lemon juice dressing, pear slices, tempeh bacon and chopped almonds, served alongside roasted butternut squash.

My dinner reality: I had to drag my wornout self off the couch and make my own dinner, but at least it was just what I wanted.

My evening at home fantasy: I sip a glass of fine red wine, while wearing a cashmere robe, and getting a foot massage as my husband eloquently tells me how sparkling and vibrant my eyes are, how bright my smile is and how he falls more in love with me with each passing moment.

My evening at home reality: I have to clean up the kitchen amidst cries of “I have to go poopy!” but find a second to make a cup of peppermint tea that will likely give me cancer from the microwave I zapped it in. Meanwhile, I referee an impromptu game of Elefun, at which point my husband says, “Too bad you are so tired, you look hot.”

Hey, it may not be the stuff fantasies are made of, but I’ll take it.