Marital Status

A few week ago I received a compliment from a man while I was bagging my groceries at the store.  Being unaccustomed to such praise from strangers, I merely said "thank you," and tried to go about my business.  He, however, must have had other intentions, for he persisted with his flirtation until I mentioned I was married-- which was about the next thing I said, mind you. At that, he apologized profusely, gathered his groceries and left.  And so, after weeks of pondering how I can avoid future awkwardness, I figure one of three things needs to happen if I'm going to be solo-grocerying:

1.  My husband needs to buy me a larger diamond ring. Much, much larger.

2.  I design a new set of t-shirts to advertise my relationship status as boldly as Facebook.

3.  I adopt a new hairstyle:

Or, I rely on the universal symbol of love: dolphins, and get a tattoo*.

*NB: Ctrl + F "dolphin"

On Trying To Do It All

After my son was born, I went back to work.  (I thought that it was my responsibility to work and provide for my family since my husband was going to school, but that's another story)

From time to time, someone reflects on this year of working outside my home and comments, "I don't know how you did it."  To be frank, I didn't.  Our house was a disaster.  Our clothes were stained and wrinkled, if not lying in heaps about the floor.  My dishes piled up so much on the counter I would spend hours (hours!) on the weekends handwashing them.  My husband cleaned the bathroom when we expected company, which was rarely. I cried at least once a day- before leaving for school, after dropping off my son at the sitter's, while sitting in the nurse's room pumping during lunch, upon reentering the mess of my house at the end of the school day, after burning dinner because I needed to nurse my son, before going to bed- I cried about anything, and everything.

I spent my weekends trying to play catch-up.  At times, we cooked all weekend and froze meals to last a month.  I lesson planned two weeks in advance. My husband helped me grade the papers I ignored during the school days.  We washed loads and loads of clothes, and loads and loads of dishes.  I nursed on demand to increase my supply, but still, I felt myself slipping further and further behind.  So many days, I wanted to walk into the principal's office and quit.    By the end of the school year, I had composed an apology letter to the parents of my students because I felt so guilty about everything I had done poorly at school, and was relieved that we were moving away and I wouldn't have to face any of them anymore at church and pretend my life was okay.

Since I've been staying home, I've had a much different experience.  I'm not going to say that my house is never untidy, or that I never make poor parenting decisions, or that I never burn dinner.  Those things still happen from time to time.  But I'm happier here, and therefore, so is my family.  I have fewer jobs to do, and I can do them better than I could when I was working.  I can't imagine ever going back to that lifestyle, no matter how old my son gets, or how bored  and lonely I get.  I can do this,and often, I can do it well. That's a reality I'm not willing to compromise.

Helicopter mom?

Perhaps it's because I just have one child, or perhaps it's because I'm still a "new mom," but I still can't understand why I would be expected to leave my child with a person whom he considers a stranger, simply so I can go do something without him when he's only two.  It just seems selfish.  But perhaps I'm an overbearing mom and my son will never find a job and will live forever in my basement eating take out pizza and playing video games.

And back again

We've unpacked (mostly). We've installed-and used!-our washer and dryer.  I've hung some pictures on the walls, and plugged in the sewing machine.  We've entertained guests, and met some of the neighbors.  We've located the nearest grocery store, gas station, and library, but still can't find a park.  We've settled into a nice little routine, and had our son asleep by 9:00 most every night.  It's safe to say I'm starting to feel like I'm home.

A Woman's Work Is Never Finished

Last summer, I called my district office and requested to be removed from the roster of church workers.  I had been a teacher for two years, but had decided I needed to be at home.  So I phoned the office and requested to be removed from the roster.  The dear secretary asked me several times if I was certain I wanted to be removed, and not just listed as "unavailable," or "not open to calls."  Being removed isn't easily reversed.  But I was certain.  I had tried the working-mother gig for a year, and found it too difficult.  I had tried the working-wife gig for three years, and found that too difficult.  The many conversations I've had with my husband had all resulted in the same decision:  I am staying home.  Not just for my son, not just for a short time until he's in school, not just until I feel "ready" to go back.  I am staying home.

Staying home has its place in this world, as long as it's just for your kids, and just as long as they're pre-schoolers.  After that, it's foolish for a woman to be in the house spending her hours laboring over oppressive chores. Certainly she would feel better about herself if she had secured herself a job- a career!- a paycheck for her efforts.  But I'm not convinced that my work at home will be done when my son is grown.  As long as I have a home and a husband, I'll be satisfied to stay here and care for them. 

I do not want to yoke myself to another job with its own burdens, stressors, deadlines, and mandates.  I do not want to go to interviews to answer questions about my strengths and weaknesses, and what good I would bring to a company or school.  I don't have those answers.  I do not want to deal with the guilt I would feel for leaving that job to care for my father or mother-in-law should they need it.

I used to think differently about such things.  But now I've learned that my place is here.  My husband and my home need me here, and my heart is in this work.  I know that my son will grow up, and at that time, I will be expected to go back out and rejoin the workforce. But I will be content to remain here, caring for the extraordinary large garden I intent to have, and reading all the books I've wanted to read but can't understand right now.  And we intend to structure our lives accordingly, even if it means becoming a better seamstress and learning to can the vegetables my garden produces.

The fourteenth time's a charm....wait, that's not right.

After fourteen moves, you would think I would have packing down to an art.  But it seems that no matter how organized I am, no matter how soon I start, no matter how many boxes I have sealed and stacked, I realize the week before we're supposed to move that I haven't done nearly enough.  So to combat the stress I feel over getting everything boxed up and neatly stowed in a moving trailer, I start shoving our stuff into boxes with wild abandon, hardly noticing what ends up where, even though I know I'll cringe when I haul boxes into our new house that are labeled  "Really Random Stuff," and "To Be Organized VI."

I will be a happy lady when I can throw away all the boxes I've saved since we got married, (That's right.  I have them all!), and move into a house that I can believe will be our home for more than a few months to a year.

Ruh-Ro, Raggy!