I stayed home with my kids for four years. Well, for the first two it was just me and my girl. Then our little man came on the scene. But all said and done I was home for the first few years of both my kids' lives. And I loved it. And I hated it. Everything is a mixed bag I guess. I finally went back to work, not by choice but by necessity. Although I'd be lying if I said a large part of me wasn't giddy at the idea. A job meant I had to get dressed every morning. And not in just the same thing over and over. Sweats and my husband's t-shirt weren't going to cut it. A job meant putting on makeup; putting on heels; doing my hair… hell, it meant regularly washing my hair! But the part I looked forward to most was talking. That's not to say my home life didn't involve talking. Oh it did. Endless amounts of talking. So much talking that I often wondered if my ear could withstand the sheer volume. But after four years, I was ready for days in which I didn't have to talk about pee-pee, poo-poo, or boo-boos. I was ready for three syllables! Or even four! (And no, Snuffleupagus does not count.) I was ready to confirm that I did in fact have a brain and that there was a time when it was useful for more than figuring out how to get a toddler to eat vegetables without realizing it.
But along with all this giddiness at the prospect of water cooler chit chat and daily grooming, came something that all moms have to grow accustomed to: guilt. That's a large chunk of motherhood that no one really shares with those about to join the ranks. Which is kind of messed up really. As a soon-to-be-mom you are bombarded with information about bleeding nipples and swaddling techniques and burping positions. The amount of advice and alleged wisdom coming at you from parents, friends, doctors, strangers, your freaking mailman, is mind boggling. And yet no one, not a single soul, bothered to warn me about the mommy guilt. It is guilt and doubt you will have about every single decision you make for your kids. Every single one. It is a torrential barrage of emotional artillery that you have absolutely no way to shield yourself from. And if it rains down on you about decisions like "should I start the baby with fruit or vegetables?", you can only imagine the weapons of mass destruction unleashed when you decide to start leaving your kids in the care of strangers for 9 hours a day.
So I began walking a daily tight rope. You know, that whole "balance" thing that for some reason only women are ever questioned about? I focused on putting one foot in front of the other and not allowing myself to be pulled down by either the excitement I felt at this new change or the guilt that threatened to crush me every morning as I left my hysterical two year old in his teacher's arms. I focused on putting one foot in front of the other while I walked the balance beam across a sea of fear and guilt and insecurity and tried to figure out how people manage to "have it all". And somehow, over the course of the next few weeks, either the beam got wider or my sense of equilibrium became more attuned because it suddenly became easier to walk to the other side. My son stopped crying, he started getting excited for school; my daughter became more responsible, more eager to do for herself what no one did for her during school hours. My husband became more aware of the countless unseen things that got taken care of when I was home. He started appreciating me more. It was a shift and a change I was wholly unprepared for.
Suddenly, because I only saw them for a few hours a day, my patience with my kids grew. I was less likely to harp at them that "Mommy is busy right now!", and more likely to pick them up and figure out how to get what I needed done while still having fun with my little people. I suddenly became more willing to play because every minute with them became more crucially precious, more appreciated. When quantity of time was no longer a luxury afforded me, quality of time came into stark focus. I find myself now being more of a "fun" mom then I ever was staying home trudging through the endless onslaught of laundry and diapers and vacuuming and accidents and naptimes.
That's not to say the guilt isn't still ever present. It will always be. That's just part of this mom gig. The grass is not perfectly manicured and sweet smelling on this side. I miss my kids. The alarm clock is my nemesis. Mornings and evenings are still a hurried mess of clothes and oatmeal and lunch bags and dinners and baths and story times, but it's a storm I am getting into the habit of enjoying. I have division in my day now. My kids are no longer part of my job. They are part of my relaxation. They are part of the "life" portion of the life-work balance we all strive to achieve. They are no longer what I have been dealing with all day, and instead are what I get to come home to. And for that I am grateful. Especially because it is an aspect I never expected. I wanted to work for me. To regain a sense of confidence that is difficult to maintain when you are a stay at home mom. I never thought this change would be just as good for my kids and for my role as "mom" as it was for my role as just Sandra. Apparently this Sandra chick and this Mommy chick can co-exist in peace. Who knew?
Share This Article
