I will start out by saying that I am not proud of what I am about to tell you, but I am not afraid to admit that I was/am not perfect. Before I had kids, and for my first couple of years of parenthood, I was one of those annoying and self-righteous people who thought it did not make any sense to have kids if at least one parent was not staying home with them. Although I RARELY shared this opinion with anyone (I may have been a tad judgmental during that stage of my life, but I was not stupid), I honestly could not imagine asking anyone to help raise my children, and to witness so many of their milestones in my place. I wanted FULL credit (along with Bryce, of course) for all of their positive personality traits; in return, I was totally willing to take the blame for any... less than positive charateristics. Every family I knew where both paretns worked full-time was constantly in a state of chaos. It seemed like Mom and Dad were so stressed trying to get everyone where they needed to be! This was a choice for my friends-- they drove nice cars, owned houses which they were able to keep clean and running well, took trips to Disneyland and Hawaii. But when I witnessed the agony these families experienced over a sick child (or even worse, a sick childcare provider), I had to wonder: Why on Earth would anyone choose this lifestyle? How could it possibly be worth it?
Fast-forward about 6.5 years, and two more children, and I wouldn't say that my perspective has taken a full 180°turn, but it sure has changed! I did work for seven years, and what I got was only a small taste of what most working moms experience; a once-per-week juggling act, as opposed to the daily circus. And, for reasons I have already explained (see "Big Changes for the Birthologist"), the evening-and-weekend career did not work for me or my family. What my job did offer me that I am now lacking is an identity outside of my home. You know, somewhere I could go and NOT be somebody's mommy or somebody's wife-- just Ruth. I MISS THAT. A lot. Enough that I now TOTALLY UNDERSTAND why some women need to work outside their home. Forget about contributing financially to the family, or keeping a "foot in the door" in your area of expertise, forget even having a gratifying, worthwhile, interesting career. I want to work simply so I can STILL FEEL LIKE A PERSON. The chaos that would accompany my absence seems worth it now.
Part of the reason I feel more comfortable with leaving my babies is that they aren't really babies anymore. Sydney and Ivy are in school all day long for ten months of the year, and enjoy camp so much, they would probably be thrilled if we told them they were going to be in camp every week during the summer so Mommy could work. Isadora is the most social two-year-old ever, and loves spending time with other kids and adults. Although my heart hurts a little bit thinking of not being able to be with them whenever one of us needs the other (especially Isadora), I do not worry about leaving them the way I did when the older two girls were very little. I feel very differently now about working parents in general, and have a clear understanding of why many women choose to work after becoming mothers, but I know I could never have worked when Sydney and Ivy were really young-- I was a different person, and I had not yet been SWALLOWED by the roles of mother and wife.
I have shared my feelings with Bryce, who is at once supportive and sobering. He wants me to be happy, and to get any job I want if it will help, but he also reminds me that I tend to romaticize the working world. I know I do; I see him get up each morning, get HIMSELF ready, then walk out the door with a quick kiss for each of us, off to the world of logical grown-ups and private bathrooms and food he did not have to cook or clean-up and positive performance reviews. I fantasize about being able to do that myself-- to get up and shower in the MORNING and just... leave. Then I snap out of it and remember that SOMEONE has to get the girls up and pack their lunches and get their breakfasts and get them dressed and to the bus, and if I go to work, I will still probably have to do that. So my fantasy of having mornings like Bryce is just that-- a fantasy.
Bryce also reminds me that the one thing more frustrating than dealing with irrational children is dealing with the many adults out there that ACT like irrational children. That the workplace is not always peaceful and calm and he does not get to pee whenever he wants (although when he does pee, he admits that he does get to do it alone), and work is certainly not always fun. I realize that in addition to adding a crazy new element to our reasonably well-oiled machine, I would be adding an unknown amount of personal disorder that I would have to learn how to deal with so I could still be a good parent at home.
Sometimes when considering looking for a job, I get discouraged. Maybe I could find another way to "find myself." Maybe I coud just take more vacations... Maybe I could refuse to do so much housework and then I would have more time for... For what? Writing class? Choir? Voice lessons? Dance lessons? Pursuing further education? I am so lost, I do not even know what I would do with some free time! This is ridiculous. I am pretty good at being a "housewife" (cringe), and I do like my kids most of the time, maybe I should just keep doing what I am doing. Soon, all three kids will be in school all day and I might have some actual free time to decide what I like. This is about when I throw my hands up in the air and make myself a rum and diet Coke.
I do not know what to do. So, I wrote a song about it. Okay, I did not actually write the song, I just changed the lyrics on an already famous song. Let me know if you need help figuring out how to fit my ingenious new lyrics into the tune.
"Somewhere Over the Freeway"
(Set to the tune of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow")
Somewhere over the freeway,
way up high, there's a land that I'd heard of once from a friend of mine.
Somewhere over the freeway,
I'll break through, and the dreams that I dared to dream really will come true.
One day I'll go on Linkedin and I'll find a job that meets my needs completely.
Where paychecks are enough to live,
and gratitude my boss would give; that's where you'll find me.
One day I'll recall what I like to do and find a way to do it daily.
I'll still have time to play and hug,
and guilt will be a memory; that's when I'll find me.
Somewhere over the freeway,
on floor 29, there's an office with my name on it, if I get time to try.
Somewhere over the freeway,
I feel certain. I'll find balance and praise, and I'll be a better mom.
The moral of this story is that the perfect life is a myth. It does not exist, except maybe "Over the Rainbow/Freeway."