Can I put "grumpy mother" on my résumé?

Hi, I'm Amy. I'm a mother, a wife, a perpetual undergrad, a gin enthusiast, a cheese aficionado, a book lover and, occasionally, a cranky lady. This is a web of facts about me, and any movement in one part of the web makes a wave that moves the other parts of the web, and I know this because, as I've mentioned before, we live with spiders. We live with a lot of spiders. During an especially stressful two-week period near the end of the spring semester I more than a few times sobbingly said, "No one can help me!" Infrequently I feel overwhelmed, depressed and horrified, but generally the equanimity of the web mood reigns. In my web mood I feel like being a fan of books has everything to do with being a mother and that, furthermore, being a fan of books helps me be a mother and being a mother gives meaning to being a book fan. But sometimes the web is elusive and—this isn't exactly awesome to admit—all the facts of my life feel dead end-ish. I'm not in the middle of a moody moment right now. If I were I probably wouldn't be able to describe how it feels, but at this happy distance description feels possible. My bad moods have almost everything to do with being a mother. It's not Graham's fault that I'm a mother. He makes motherhood great, fulfilling, joyful. And it's certainly not Graham's fault that I'm a stay-at-home mother. He has never asked me not to put him in daycare, and it's not his fault that I am emotionally incapable of being more than a room away from him for more than an hour at a time, although his being an adorable, funny and entertaining love sponge doesn't make it easy to leave him. But he's also not blameworthy for being an adorable, funny and entertaining love sponge. That's just who he is, and it is truly the happiest privilege I have ever personally known or ever heard of to be able to watch Graham learn and grow and hug him whenever I want. But I am also responsible for Graham. I don't want to not be responsible for him. I am glad—thrilled, elated—that being his mom is my job. Aron and I never had a conversation where we mutually decided that I would be the one to stay home with Graham. I guess it was a given that one of us would have to stay home with him (since we can't afford daycare), but it's surprising to me now to realize that it was also evidently a given that that person would be me. I am going to stop interrupting myself after this one last assertion:  I'm glad I'm the one who stays home with Graham, and anytime Graham and I are apart I get awful stomach aches, so I wouldn't survive emotionally if I had to leave Graham for long periods each day, or any day. It certainly makes sense economically that I stay home:  Aron makes a little over eleven dollars an hour plus tips, and when I was working I made minimum wage plus tips, and it's not like being a knocked up perpetual undergrad made me suddenly eligible for a better paying job. Sometimes Aron asks where I want to go to graduate school, and even in my good web moods I respond with something like, "Why would I go to graduate school?" This isn't self-pity; it's pragmatism. I like books, but I have nothing to say about books. I'm a mother, and it's a personal rut that can't envision myself getting out of. Not a rut. But a rut. (Confusion is my part-time job.) When Aron asks where I want to go to graduate school, I feel like it's as practical of a question as, "Amy, who do you want to play Nick and Nora Charles in the remake of The Thin Man you're going to write and direct?" Edward Norton and Marion Cotillard, of course. If motherhood is a rut, it's a temporary one. In five years Graham will start school, which means that, unless I get pregnant again, in five years I will start spending my days doing something other than raising him, and I will at that point be out of practice in terms of focusing on what I want beyond motherhood. My bad moods arise from perspective problems. I simply cannot see where there is to get to. I haven't found full-time, stay-at-home motherhood to be the type of job that allows me to cultivate any of my other interests. It's no one's fault that I am evidently incapable of compartmentalizing. I don't even think it's my own fault. But I guess it's up to me to get better at it, and I'll be the one left wondering what to do in five years if I don't manage to improve my compartmentalization skills. It's tricky:  my happy moods result from the very connectedness that in my bad moods overwhelms me. They're just moods, and everything is fine.