The Mommies' Diaries…Parenting, One Blog at a Time.

Recently, I was in conversation with someone about the various stressors in life.  To my surprise, they had a very snarky reaction when I said that I often feel stressed – implying that my life as a stay-at-home-mom doesn’t merit feelings of pressure, anxiety or worry.  My reaction was a visceral one.  I felt the anger boil from deep within, and I literally began shaking with the utter sadness I felt from being misunderstood, undervalued, and slightly disrespected.

I have thought long and hard about how to clearly convey my thoughts about the unglamorous side of life as a stay-at-home mom.  My mind keeps circling back to a column that a friend posted on her Facebook page over a year ago.  So, with a little help from Google search, I was able to relocate the original source of the column.  I will apologize now, for today’s post is mostly unoriginal – but shares a message that couldn’t be more personal to me.

I also think it’s important for me to say that the hardships of being a stay-at-home-mom are no greater than those of a working mom, or dad, or guardian.  My goal in re-posting this writing by Carolyn Hax is not to claim my role is mightier than anyone else’s.  In fact, I am still baffled by the balancing act that working mothers must maintain…..how on earth do you work 10 hours a day, completely love your kids up, and find time to do the laundry and grocery shopping?  Amazing.  My purpose in posting the below is to potentially shift the perspective of anyone else out there who might underestimate the hard work that goes into “playing all day.”

At the end of the day, we all have stress.  We just need to remember that no one else’s stress is either greater, or less than, our own – because it’s what we are personally experiencing and living…..it’s all that we know in the moment.  Let’s be mindful of what the other is experiencing, and try to broaden our thinking so that we may practice compassion and understanding.

TELL ME ABOUT IT

By Carolyn Hax

The Washington Post

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Carolyn:

Best friend has child. Her: exhausted, busy, no time for self, no time for me, etc.

Me (no kids): Wow. Sorry. What’d you do today?

Her: Park, play group . . .

Okay. I’ve done Internet searches, I’ve talked to parents. I don’t get it. What do stay-at-home moms do all day? Please no lists of library, grocery store, dry cleaners . . . I do all those things, too, and I don’t do them EVERY DAY. I guess what I’m asking is: What is a typical day and why don’t moms have time for a call or e-mail? I work and am away from home nine hours a day (plus a few late work events) and I manage to get it all done. I’m feeling like the kid is an excuse to relax and enjoy — not a bad thing at all — but if so, why won’t my friend tell me the truth? Is this a peeing contest (“My life is so much harder than yours”)?

What’s the deal? I’ve got friends with and without kids and all us child-free folks get the same story and have the same questions.

Tacoma, Wash.

REPLY:

Relax and enjoy. You’re funny.

Or you’re lying about having friends with kids.

Or you’re taking them at their word that they actually have kids, because you haven’t personally been in the same room with them.

Internet searches?

I keep wavering between giving you a straight answer and giving my forehead some keyboard. To claim you want to understand, while in the same breath implying that the only logical conclusions are that your mom-friends are either lying or competing with you, is disingenuous indeed.

So, since it’s validation you seem to want, the real answer is what you get. In list form.

When you have young kids, your typical day is: constant attention, from getting them out of bed, fed, clean, dressed; to keeping them out of harm’s way; to answering their coos, cries, questions; to having two arms and carrying one kid, one set of car keys, and supplies for even the quickest trips, including the latest-to-be-declared-essential piece of molded plastic gear; to keeping them from unshelving books at the library; to enforcing rest times; to staying one step ahead of them lest they get too hungry, tired or bored, any one of which produces the kind of checkout-line screaming that gets the checkout line shaking its head.

It’s needing 45 minutes to do what takes others 15.

It’s constant vigilance, constant touch, constant use of your voice, constant relegation of your needs to the second tier.

It’s constant scrutiny and second-guessing from family and friends, well-meaning and otherwise. It’s resisting constant temptation to seek short-term relief at everyone’s long-term expense.

It’s doing all this while concurrently teaching virtually everything — language, manners, safety, resourcefulness, discipline, curiosity, creativity. Empathy. Everything.

It’s also a choice, yes. And a joy. But if you spent all day, every day, with this brand of joy, and then, when you got your first 10 minutes to yourself, wanted to be alone with your thoughts instead of calling a good friend, a good friend wouldn’t judge you, complain about you to mutual friends, or marvel how much more productively she uses her time. Either make a sincere effort to understand or keep your snit to yourself.

There I was, at Whole Foods, meandering up and down the marinades aisle for the twelfth time in 45 minutes…literally.  I had been gone from home for so long that my husband called to make sure everything was alright. I broke down in tears, “I cannot make a decision to save my life.”  I finally grabbed the Tandoori sauce.  Tandoori sauce?  Not only had I never cooked Chicken Tandoori before, but I actually didn’t even know what it was.

My husband kept me on the phone for my drive home.  “I’m worried about you, babe.  What’s going on?”  I didn’t even know where to begin in answering that question.  In the moment, what was wrong was that I was afraid of letting my family down by choosing some random Indian dish for dinner.  However, the more we got to talking, what was really wrong was that I had no idea who I was anymore – what I liked, didn’t like, it all just blended together into one big sea of indecision.

The truth is, I haven’t taken the time to talk – I mean really talk, to anyone these past 13 months about how my life has changed since becoming a mom.  I mean, sure, there are those wonderfully candid conversations that I have with my best friends where we complain about how many loads of laundry we’ve done, how many days it’s been since we’ve had even a minute to ourselves, how thinking of cooking ONE MORE MEAL feels like torture, or how changing one more diaper just might put us into the psych ward.  It’s not that those talks aren’t important, because they are.  In fact, it’s those raw moments in friendship that keep you floating from one monotonous moment to the next.  However, in a world of really loving, really supportive people – sometimes telling the truth results in tirelessly defending yourself against a flood of heartfelt suggestions on what you may, or may not, need to be doing differently.

And so folks, here it goes.  My best attempt at telling my truth – not because I care to endure one more suggestion that I need a girls’ night out, or that perhaps I’m one of those women who really needs to work outside the home, but because I feel the need to be authentic in hopes that I can make peace with this woman that I’ve become.  And, quite frankly, I am sick of subscribing to the whole of other people’s truths simply because part of that truth mirrors my own, and I am desperate to be understood.

I LOVE being a mom.  I was meant to be a mom.  Nothing has brought me even a fraction of the joy and fulfillment that being DJ’s mom does.  I don’t actually feel that I have given up very much, or that I have sacrificed very much to be a mom.  I can count on one hand how many times I have lost my patience with DJ, or how many times I have ABSOLUTELY needed a moment to myself.  I can’t relate to moms who fantasize about running away from home, or who prefer to run their errands without their kids in tow.  I actually don’t mind not sleeping through the night, or even comforting an inconsolable child.  I don’t even care that my favorite song is currently “Pop Goes the Weasel,” or that my best dance moves accompany “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider.”  I am unabashedly in love with my daughter.  There are even moments when I look at her and literally cry over how cute she is (I am sure that saying that out loud has caused some eyes to roll – which is exactly why I’ve never said it out loud before).  And while I realize that my swooning love affair with motherhood could cause some people to question my sincerity, I promise, it’s the truth – it’s my favorite thing ever.

And so, what’s the issue?  Well, the issue begins with my confusion – how could something that I love so much also leave me longing for things of my past?  I mean, I miss feeling cute and even remotely desirable (though my husband never makes me feel anything less than beautiful).  I miss commuting to my office, and feeling as though I am in rhythm with the infinite energy of Silicon Valley.  I miss having aching calves at the end of a workday from wearing three-inch heels while running from one meeting to the next.  I miss having smart things to say in front of people who would inevitably be reviewing (and rewarding) my performance.  Heck, I just miss having smart things to say!  I miss the financial freedom of having two incomes, and I miss being just a partner to my husband – rather than a co-parent with him.  I miss spontaneous and extravagant dates with him, too.  I miss completely tiny, potentially sequined, and very nonfunctional purses.  I miss sneaking away at 3:00 in the afternoon to indulge in a frozen yogurt all by myself. I miss getting through an entire episode of Ellen, uninterrupted.  I miss feeling like I’m in the know, part of the “popular” group – the women without muffin top tummies or thick-strapped, underwire bras.  I miss feeling independent – or at least the strength and sense of power that comes along with it.

So, that’s it, in a nutshell.  Much of why I don’t share is because I can’t possibly be polite to the next person who offers to watch Delilah while I spend some time alone.  I can’t possibly explain to one more person that missing my stilettos doesn’t necessarily mean that I need to slip them on and go grab a drink with a girlfriend.  It’s just that I need to be able to say these things so that I can process who I was, and who I am now – and how those two worlds have collided and what gets to cross over, what’s left behind, and what’s still to come.  I need to be able to mourn for the things that will forever be left in my “previous life,” while also being able to say that I would never, in a million years, trade those things for the gifts that I have now.

I just need to be able to be me – without the effort of being fixed, or the doubt that actually I’m happy, or the justification that I’m truly alright.  When I say it all out loud, it makes perfect sense and I feel great – refreshingly multidimensional.