Some problems are so complex and frustrating that one feels like scrapping the whole thing and starting over anew. Untangling those stupid “fun fur” yarns from the craft store is like that. Right now, my whole life is like that.
Let me illustrate. I have a degree; I double majored in art and religion. Yeah, I know, but a degree is a degree, and I’ve at least proven that I can learn. I managed a bookstore; I worked for a museum managing volunteers and the front desk. But five years ago I chose to stay home with our children. I thought it would be great; just me and the kids all day? We’ll have so much fun! Yeah right. There were so many things I didn’t understand back then. I didn’t realize how isolating it can be to stay home with children, how demoralizing to clean and clean and clean and see no difference at all, because the little hellions are manic about creating more mess. It is their purpose in life, their calling, their destiny. And to be in the messy house alone all day? Is not exactly the domestic bliss I’d envisioned.
I’ve heard some people say “oh but you get paid in hugs and kisses and love!” Well, how about getting paid in nasty looks, screams and venomous remarks? No one, but no one, can hurt you like your child. And Cameron is especially good at giving voice to his disapproval. “This food tastes like slugs.” “YOU should have done something!” (whenever anything goes wrong.) And my favorite, saying that Daddy could do something I can’t, because he’s smarter … because he works. (Which is totally not true, by the way, I’m plenty smart. “I am so smart, I am so smart, S-M-R-T … “) It’s his talent. Really, at this point, I would rather get paid in actual money. At least I could spend that on therapy or vodka.
Others say that it’s the most rewarding, important thing I can do. And yes, I agree, it is the most important thing I will do, raising my children. But does it have to be the ONLY thing I do? To say that is to say that any working mother is a bad mother. And sorry, I’ve known plenty of moms who work, and they are great moms. I know I’m glad my mom worked; I can be proud of her, and know that she did something extraordinary with her life. Why shouldn’t I do something extraordinary with mine that does not involve my kids? (She thinks so too. When I first told her I was going to stay home, she said, “Why did we spend so much sending you to college if you’re just going to be a housewife?”) And if raising kids is so important, so grand and noble, why is it that when I say I stay home with the kids, the light of interest goes off in so many eyes? There is no value placed upon what I do, and no matter how many times I reassure myself, eventually the judgment of society weighs upon me.
I have wished over and over that I had a disposition that let me be happy at home. I am so envious of Kim and Andrea, who are not only happy being home, but are really good at it. I’ve wondered ever since Cameron was born, “What’s wrong with me?” Let me tell you, that is not a happy mental place to be for five years. I still don’t know what the difference is between me and them, but I wish I could wave a magic wand and change myself. God knows I’ve tried. It would sure be a lot better for everyone.
I’ve tried to make it better, more interesting. I’ve acquired chickens, I’ve begun spinning my own yarn, I got a pair of rabbits to spin yarn from. I’ve written a lot of stories, and published most of them. But none of those make a significant amount of money, not anywhere near enough to cover the costs of child care, so they must remain hobbies. And that’s such a condescending, patronizing term, hobby, when referring to something I’m trying to do to make money, to carve out a niche for myself. There’s a desperation somewhere under all that, a scrambling feeling of a last-ditch effort to save my dignity and self-respect, that is wiped out when someone says “You don’t have to make money writing/spinning/etc. You’re lucky that your husband makes enough for you to stay home. But if you feel that way, I suppose it’s good for you to make a little money with your hobby(ies).” Or even worse, “Oh that’s nice that you’ve got a little job!” Gag me with a spork, can my significance be any more diminished?
But there are problems with going back to work, too. The most I’ve ever made was $14 an hour, and that was for a few months at the library; those jobs are almost exclusively part time. Hiring babysitters proved to just not work out; I needed the flexibility and assured availability of a professional drop-in daycare. My one main babysitter was wonderful, but it was still difficult at times with syncing up our schedules, plus if her kids were sick she couldn’t very well take mine too. She has now gone back to work, and I am so pleased for her; she seems very happy. I can’t help but be envious, because I can’t find a full-time job that pays what I would need to make to pay for child care. And I’m in Texas, which has a relatively stable and active economy.
Then there’s the issue of a third child. It feels like there’s still someone missing. Perhaps it’s because Curtiss and I both came from families with three children. We would both like a third child, but is that for the best for our family? Is it in my best interests, and the best interests of our current children? Will I be able to give them the best of me, with a third little one? Could I ever afford to work again? Even when they’re all in school, there’s summer, breaks and illnesses to contend with.
So there’s my as-yet-unsolvable problem. I need a sword for this Gordian knot.