Today is one of those days when I am so incredibly grateful to be able to stay at home with Penelope. Even though it's been a tough day at times (she's had a harder time eating and sleeping today and doesn't seem quite her usual self) and I've had moments of being overwhelmed with where things are at with me and with life, even with the crazy heat we're having which means I can't just throw her in the stroller and head outside, even though I haven't seen friends nearly as often as I'd planned on the past few months, even still. As nice as it would be to escape, I truly can't imagine how badly it would hurt to have to turn her over to someone else every morning. Or even some mornings. Not now, while she's still so little and every single day brings a new noise, a new look, a new smile, and yes, a new frustration.
I know this life isn't for everyone and until I was a little over half-way through my pregnancy I really thought I wanted to go back to work. The thought of two less paychecks a month plus the cost of diapers was frightening, to say the least. How could we possibly afford to enjoy anything in our quiet little life if we were constantly worried about making it month to month? Was it really worth it to sacrifice our potential sanity? Wasn't it better that our baby had parents that didn't worry so much about money? How would I ever be able to afford to look like anything other than a tired, unkempt mommy with grown out roots and holey sweatpants?
The other argument for working, and it seemed the strongest, was that my own mother had stayed home with my sister, brother, and me and I don't remember her being happy for much of my life. She homeschooled us, doing an excellent job I might add, kept the cleanest house that side of the Mississippi River, baked our bread with wheat she had ground, for Pete's sake, read out loud to us daily, crocheted, made quilts, the list goes on. But I really don't ever remember her feeling happy that I could tell. And later I found out just how depressing it was to live with a man as narcissistic and heavy-handed as my father, a man she was never brave enough to leave. I knew I wanted my children to experience happiness and be able to see their parents happy as well so the logical thing, in my mind, was to take three months off after the birth and then go back to work. I figured I could work three long days in the office and one day at home, to help with childcare costs as well as give me more time with the baby. Then I could still keep a spotless house, do all the laundry, make at least half of the week's dinners, and not miss too much of my baby's life. I was convinced I could do it all. And do it well.
And then in January I decided that the thought of anyone getting to spend as much or more time with Baby Pea in one day as I did would drive me to dreadful, dreadful acts of jealousy and my perfect little plan started unraveling. And then I sat down and figured out what we were actually using my salary for in the way of necessities versus "fun things to have and do and not have to keep track of". Let's just say that we weren't doing as much with the money as we really could have. So much of it seemed to be spent paying for lunches, work clothes, gas, car repairs brought on by the constant use, dinners out because we were both working such long hours and then sitting separately in horrendously bad rush hour traffic and to then want to cook a decent meal, much less have time to, just wasn't practical. Granted, living on one salary would still be a huge, huge change but Jeffrey had recently been given a raise and so we'd essentially be back to making what our combined salaries were when we were first married. And now we didn't have car payments so there was the diaper money.
Now, almost three months into Pea's life, I cannot even imagine going back to work. And had I chosen differently, I would be going back this week. Yes I'm sure that our bond would somehow hold but how could it continue to grow? Yes I would have already had so much more time than so many other mothers are granted but I actually have the option to stay. How could I look into her eyes and tell her that I was leaving her because mama decided she needs more stress--people that depend on her but people she doesn't love desperately reminding her that she now consistently runs late? How could I explain to her at night, when I'm finally home and trying to soothe her tired, little, mama-starved body that mama's working so hard because more than anything she needs new and better clothes, new shoes more often, to buy books instead of borrow from the library or friends, and the chance to have dinner out whenever she wants?
Of course there are things I would like to have and do and more often. But every morning Jeffrey goes and gets Penelope when she wakes, changes her, and brings her back to bed. And I get to feed her, play with her, and put her down for her nap. And then I get to do it all over again and again and still again until the end of the day. Sometimes the laundry is done and sometimes it isn't. Usually the floors are dirty and at least one of the toilets has a ring. But underneath my tiredness and frustration, and the worry about money that never really goes away, is a deep, deep happiness in my soul. And the knowledge that when the time is right I will have the option to do other work again.
But a quick warning to any and all future bosses: motherhood has a way of making your bullshit detector extra sensitive.
