When you're a stay-at-home mother you have to pretend it's really

Host: The kitchen clock ticked softly, its rhythm weaving through the hum of the dishwasher and the distant giggle of a child somewhere down the hall. Outside, the suburban evening hung quiet and gold, the sky fading into that soft lavender hue that makes everything — toys on the lawn, laundry on the line — look like part of a painting.

At the table, half-covered in crayon drawings, coffee mugs, and laptop cords, sat Jack, tie loosened, typing with the distracted focus of someone trying to pretend he wasn’t tired. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged in a chair, her hair messy, her sleeves rolled up, one hand resting on a half-empty glass of wine.

A baby monitor blinked on the counter, glowing faintly like a lighthouse in domestic waters.

Jeeny: “Amy Poehler once said, ‘When you're a stay-at-home mother you have to pretend it's really boring, but it's not. It's enriching and fulfilling, and an amazing experience. And then when you're a working mother you have to pretend that you feel guilty all day long.’”

Jack: (smirking) “That’s one of those quotes that sounds funny until you realize it’s heartbreaking.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because it’s true — women are expected to apologize for whatever life they choose. If they stay home, they’re wasting their potential. If they work, they’re neglecting their kids.”

Host: The light flickered from the ceiling fixture, catching the faint steam still rising from the forgotten pasta pot on the stove. A cartoon jingle played faintly in the next room, the sound of innocence against the quiet exhaustion of adulthood.

Jack: “You know, I never thought about that growing up. My mum stayed home — I just assumed she was happy. But now I think maybe she was just good at pretending.”

Jeeny: “Pretending’s part of survival. Poehler’s right — you learn to act for the world’s comfort. You pretend it’s dull so no one accuses you of self-satisfaction. You pretend guilt so no one accuses you of ambition.”

Jack: “So motherhood’s a performance?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a constant improvisation — the greatest one there is. And like all great performances, nobody claps enough.”

Host: The baby monitor crackled, a brief sound, then silence again. Jeeny glanced toward it, smiled softly, then turned back to Jack.

Jeeny: “You know what’s amazing? Poehler isn’t glorifying motherhood. She’s honoring its complexity — the mess, the contradictions, the quiet wars nobody sees.”

Jack: “The wars between identity and expectation.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The war between what the world demands from you and what you know is sacred.”

Host: The camera drifted slowly, catching small details — a stack of picture books by the wall, a single high-heeled shoe under the table, a post-it on the fridge that read ‘Call preschool by Tuesday!’

Jack: “I think people underestimate what it means to build a life around others. We celebrate ambition that expands outward — careers, art, fame. But the ambition to nurture? That’s treated like a consolation prize.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s the paradox — the most profound labor in the world, disguised as ordinary life. It’s not glamorous, but it’s astonishing.”

Jack: “And yet, people only see the surface — the errands, the routines. They never see the depth of it.”

Jeeny: “They can’t. Because the beauty of it is invisible — it’s measured in laughter, security, and stories a child will never realize were built from someone else’s exhaustion.”

Host: The clock ticked louder now, as if time itself were watching them. Jeeny leaned back, stretching, her eyes soft but thoughtful.

Jeeny: “You know, when Poehler says you have to pretend it’s boring, she’s not being ironic. She’s pointing at the quiet power of women — the way they protect what’s sacred by disguising it as mundane. It’s a kind of stealth devotion.”

Jack: “And when she says working mothers have to pretend guilt — that’s the other side of it. Society demands remorse as proof of love.”

Jeeny: “Yes. As if fulfillment and affection can’t coexist. As if joy in one sphere means neglect in the other.”

Host: The sound of a toy falling echoed down the hallway, followed by the small footsteps of a child. Jeeny turned her head, smiled.

A tiny girl appeared in the doorway, holding a stuffed bear by one arm.

Girl: “Mommy, can I have water?”

Jeeny: (rising, kneeling beside her) “Of course, baby.”

Host: Jeeny handed her the cup, brushing the child’s hair from her face. The little girl took a sip, then looked at Jack with the kind of direct curiosity only children have.

Girl: “Are you helping Mommy work?”

Jack: (grinning) “Trying to.”

Girl: “She’s the best worker.”

Host: The child’s words hung there, simple and holy. Jeeny’s smile trembled, just a little.

Jeeny: “See? That’s what Poehler meant by enriching. It’s not a job — it’s an awakening. You don’t just raise a child. You discover yourself — piece by piece, in moments like that.”

Jack: “And then you go back to pretending it’s boring.”

Jeeny: “Because the world doesn’t know what to do with a woman who’s both content and powerful in her choice.”

Host: The little girl padded away, back toward her toys, leaving the sound of her laughter floating like wind chimes in the next room.

Jack looked at Jeeny, then down at the laptop where his cursor blinked in an empty document.

Jack: “You know, the way you talk about it — it sounds like both roles, stay-at-home and working, are acts of rebellion. Just in different costumes.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every mother is a revolutionary in her own way. She’s either fighting invisibility or fighting guilt. Either way, she’s fighting for space to exist as a full person.”

Jack: “And no one gives her medals for it.”

Jeeny: “No. Just the occasional quote from Amy Poehler.”

Host: The two of them laughed, softly, the kind of laughter that feels like relief. The light flickered again, dimming to evening warmth.

Outside, a neighbor’s sprinkler clicked on, its rhythm syncopating with the laughter of children somewhere beyond the yard.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? The word amazing gets thrown around so easily — gold medals, movie premieres, magic tricks. But the way Poehler said it — she meant it literally. To be amazed is to be humbled by the fullness of something. And motherhood, in any form, does that every day.”

Jack: “Because it’s the only thing big enough to contain both joy and guilt without collapsing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The camera pulled back, showing the whole room — the toys, the laptop, the mess, the beauty. A small home glowing against the darkening evening, where exhaustion and grace lived side by side.

And as the clock struck nine, Amy Poehler’s words seemed to float through the air like truth disguised as humor:

That motherhood is performance and prayer,
both thankless and transcendent.

That it’s okay to laugh through the guilt,
and to find amazement
in the smallest, quietest victories —
a glass of water, a giggle in the dark,
and the rare, miraculous moment
when a woman feels enough
just being who she is.