she's just sayin'

I haven’t mentioned it explicitly, but if you’ve been reading for awhile and are good at context clues, you may have guessed that since the birth of my son I have transitioned jobs and am now a stay at home mom.

The title ‘stay at home mom’ really opens up a Pandora’s box of reactions, doesn’t it? If we were to play word association, what words would come to mind? Old-fashioned? Necessary? Unnecessary? Ideal? Noble? Luxury? Drudgery?

I was always of two minds about the institution. My mom was a stay at homer in the eighties, arguably a post-feminist decade when women had already trailblazed their right to work in corporate America and were headed to offices in all their boxy blazered, shoulder-padded glory. “Latchkey kid” was a common term back then and I recall that many of my classmates were just that. Of course, kids never want to be different, so in those days I wanted my mom to work just because everyone else’s mom did. I was too young to appreciate that there was always someone there to ask how my day was when I walked through the door, even though as I got older my response was always ‘fine’, followed by a trudge upstairs to my room. Ah, teenage angst!

Once I became a working professional and found some degree of success in that world, it was hard for me to fathom how I would one day factor kids into the mix. I had worked so hard over the past six years. Would I really just give it all up? I couldn’t see how. Besides, I liked the feelings of accomplishment that came from a job well done. I liked being recognized for my talents and rewarded with the occasional promotion or even less occasional pay raise. I liked the intellectual challenge. So what would my options be if a child were to enter into the mix? Daycare? A nanny? Common choices, obviously, but scenarios that neither I nor Mike had any experience with (his mom was a stay at homer too).

I tried to picture what life would be like in all scenarios. Of course, without benefit of having a child already, this was impossible. In the end, a multitude of considerations guided my choice. And thankfully, it was my choice. Mike understood that while his input was critical, it was ultimately me—the mom—who had the final say.

So here I am: a mom at home. It’s funny, no one (or at least very few) would argue that motherhood—work at home, work outside the home, stay at home—is the hardest job in the world. Stay at home motherhood, though? I understand that there are plenty who question the merits of this career choice. To me, though, being a stay at home mom is like anything in life – it’s what you make of it. I could park myself in front of the TV at every nap time, getting up only when absolutely necessary. And let’s be honest, there are days when I’d like to do exactly that. I choose not to. When the baby is up, alert and wanting attention, I shower it on him. I dedicate myself to being with him – teaching him, making him feel loved, playing with him. At times, this is incredibly tedious. Talking to someone who can’t talk back tends to make you feel a little nutty. Keeping up a chipper tone of voice for twelve hours a day can be incredibly tiresome. Dangling brightly colored objects in front of a person’s face over and over again gets monotonous. But the smiles you get in return, the moments you realize your child has picked up a new skill or learned something about the world because of you really are rewarding.

When Drew’s napping, I work on the other aspects of the job, what those in the restaurant industry call ‘side work.’ I do the laundry, yes, and I iron. I empty and load the dishwasher ad infinitum, I clean the bathrooms. Are these tasks drudgery? Yes, but doesn’t every job have some degree of mindless work?

I try new recipes, with the goal of mastering a signature lineup of dishes. One day when Drew is grown and living on his own, I hope when he comes home he asks for some of these meals, ones I worked hard to master in the early years of his life and that Mike politely choked down while I was still getting the hang of them. I hope that when Drew’s away at college, or living in his first apartment, when talk comes to food he tells friends or girlfriends ‘my mom makes the best…’

The rewards of this job will never come in the form of pay. And I know it’s likely that sometimes my efforts will be rewarded with tantrums, tears, sneers and slamming doors. Many of the rewards may not be reaped for another twenty years. But I’m patient; I can wait. In the meantime I’ll accept http://www.shesjustsayin.com/wp-admin/post-new.phppayment in the form of gummy grins and snuggles.

They happen simply, quickly, with no fanfare. They happen at random times, the way the universe intends—when you least expect them. They are small things, really. But they are huge. They are milestones.

For weeks and weeks he stared at you, watched you feed, change and care for him. And then one day he smiles, and that smile changes everything.

His tiny fists were bunched and now slowly, over time, they are not. Now his hands are spread wide, open, accepting of your finger. Where once you couldn’t pry one tiny finger out, now you are holding hands.

His legs were curled up into his abdomen, frog-like. And while you were feeding, changing and caring for him they slowly unfurled. Now they are stretched out, dangling out of your arms while you hold him, kicking the side of the rocking chair, seeking more space to spread out.

His noises were only grunts and slurps, indicators of basic needs. Soon soft coos were added into the mix, vowel sounds, like all the experts said. Now there are consonants sprinkled in, and the sounds are louder, more forceful. He was once quiet (save for the cries), now he’s an endless string of OOOOH, GRRRR, ANNNHHH, RMMMMM, EUUUUUUU.

His head was a floppy appendange, needing to be constantly cradled and nestled close. Now his neck is strong, and his head cranes this way and that. “Focus” you tell him while burping, trying to steer his head back to center.

His back was best, the only way he would lie on the floor. You tried the belly. He struggled, cried. Then, from one day to the next, something changed. On his belly he pushed himself up and looked around, happy, not frustrated. He turned his little swivel head this way and that and took in the new views. He arched his back slightly and leaned, just a little at first, and then more. You watched, pleased with his progress. And then the lean tilted to an even sharper angle and gently the weight of his body shifted. He rolled over. He looked up at the sky, calm. You showered him with praise, tears pricking your eyes. He accepted the praise but his look seemed to say, ‘what’s the big deal?’ It’s as if he’s been doing it forever. Another milestone reached, little, but huge.

Well, it had to happen sometime. Everything was going so well. Too well. My almost three month old was sleeping for beautiful, GLORIOUS stretches each night. Six, often seven, once even eight hours straight! And now, we have regression. Not just a slight ebb back a couple of hour notches though. Oh, no. We’re back to the endless wakeup calls that left me a walking zombie when Drew was barely two months old.

For the past several days, Drew’s night time awakenings have occurred at 2.5 – 3 hour intervals. This is the stuff that can drain a woman’s very last will to live. Two nights ago, I settled into bed hoping this would be the night we’d return to the beautiful progress we’d made. Boy was I wrong. The ;ittle bugger woke up at midnight, then at two thirty, then at five. By six thirty, when he woke up for the day, I was sapped of all my strength and, I’ll admit it, angry. Three wake ups in a five hour span?!

I try to reassure myself that these setbacks happen. I’ve read about them, heard the tales. “It’s probably a growth spurt,” most knowing moms and experts would say. And I hope it is. Because that’s a good thing. And if that’s what’s happening, then at least there’s good cause for greeting nearly every hour of the night. That would indicate we are making progress of some kind. But what if we’re not?

What I don’t like, in addition to the return of feeling like I’m zombie-walking through the day, is the guilt I feel. You see, every time Drew wakes up at a time of night I find unacceptable, I get mad at him. I know this is irrational. He’s a baby. He doesn’t know better (right??). When he’s crying out in the night, there is some need that he feels needs to be met. He’s not waking me up out of spite. But when the clock reads 12:02, or 2:26, or 4:58 and I stomp into his room, I don’t greet his wide, innocent baby eyes with a “what’s wrong, baby?” look of concern and a calming touch. I know I should. Instead he gets an exhausted, frustrated, “what IS it?!” And I feel terrible about that.

During the sparkling daylight hours when his eyes are bright and he’s giggling at something I did or looking at me attentively while I talk to someone else, the guilt pricks at my insides. You picked him up too forcefully, I scold myself. You plopped him back into his crib while he cried and walked away. You didn’t hold him close and soothe him back to sleep. You lost your patience. You’re usually so patient.

When the guilt seeps in I pick him up and give him an extra squeeze. He can’t see the salty tears resting in the corners of my eyes. “I love you bud,” I murmur into his ear. And I promise myself I’ll do better next time. But I’m afraid that I won’t.