Staying Home and Stuff

I realize I haven't posted in a while, but I've had a lot of stuff on my mind. And by stuff, I mean cool stuff. Or more specifically, cool stuff I don't have and I wish I did.

I don't think I'm alone either. While recently visiting my six year old son's old friend from preschool, Colin paused from playing with his buddy's action figures, politely waited for my attention, and looking up at me with those big, brown eyes, he said, "Mommy, why don't I have cool toys like all of my friends?"

He said this in front of his friend's parents, and though I wouldn't say I was embarrassed by my son's question, I felt the need to immediately defend our family's "no cool toy policy." I pointed out to Colin (or perhaps more to the other kid's parents listening to my argument) that in lieu of magic balls and squeeky, squishy, slime-filled gadgets endorsed by Nickelodeon, Colin is blessed to be able to seek hours of entertainment with cardboard boxes, sheets, and good old fashioned story telling. My argument was met with praise from the listening parents who went on and on about how kids today are so spoiled and how lucky Colin is to possess such advanced imaginative abilities.

Colin still looked more interested in the Toys R Us display in the corner of his friend's family room.

The parents continued, "Our child is constantly bringing home new toys from relatives and these items are surely distracting him from learning to ride his bike."

Colin, an excellent bike rider, announced to the room that he had been without training wheels for two years. And just like that my little wheelie popper felt better about himself, and I proceeded to give myself an imaginary round of applause for being such a good mother and encouraging cardboard hut making.

Except that, well... I LIKE stuff. I WANT stuff. And many times, I don't want to paint windows on a big cardboard box. I'd prefer the permanence of a little wood play shed in the backyard that not only has custom windows, but also an attached sandbox, picnic table, bounce house, swing set, and roller coaster. Oh, how happy my kids would be with all that STUFF!

Okay, back to reality holding the paintbrush by the cardboard box. I'm exaggerating about wanting Peewee's Playhouse in my backyard, but since being home with my kids, I realize that as far as a playdate competition goes, my house loses BIG TIME. I don't say this without feeling a little ashamed as I know there are plenty of kids who don't have half of what my kids do, and I have to remember I chose to leave the workforce as opposed to many who are forced against their will during the current recession. I try to be grateful, but I admit it. I sometimes ache for a big old, flashy playroom for my kids (and while I'm daydreaming, also a custom built bar for me). I find myself feeling sad thinking that my house offers little wow factor for incoming playmates.

And then there is a part of me that is fine with this, even slightly proud. Husband Jeff, the moral voice of reason in my household but still ruining all my materialistic fun, made it known very early in Colin's life that any toy with lights, buttons, and whistles requiring at least two packs of batteries was invented by Satan. These toys don't enrage me like they enrage Jeff, but I do understand his appreciation for the skill building nature of plain old blocks, balls, and books. Still, as classic as these toys may be, sometimes they just seem, well, old. And so my family gratefully accepts invitations to play with other kids' stuff, swim in other kids' pools, and drink other kids' juice boxes. Because the hard truth of the matter is that I'm a stay-at-home parent. I can't buy the stuff. I can't buy the pool. And while I can buy juice boxes- Dear Lord- have you seen how many of those things kids can drink in a day?

When I considered stay-at-home motherhood, I certainly feared the possible sadness of not being able to spend money. When one loses an income, it's a sacrifice, and though most of the time I accept it, sometimes I get sad. I miss buying without having to think much about it. More displeasing, I find myself growing jealous of others with the beautiful swingset proof that they earn paychecks. I try to console myself by thinking that maybe they're jealous of say, my daughter's awesome curly hair, or perhaps, my ability to perform the Michael Jackson thriller dance. But it doesn't help. I still want the swingset.

Driving home from Preshool Friend's house, I looked at my son.

"You know, Colin," I said, "I know you like your friends' toys, but I want you to remember how lucky you are to have so many people in your life who love you and play with you. You will remember these people and your experiences with them when you get older--not some flashy Batman toy."

Then Colin and I talked about his Papa, who had built a "treehouse" that Colin adored, despite its lopsidedness and instability. We talked about his great uncle spending hours with Colin in a lake with nothing to entertain them except their swimming skills and each other. Colin nodded proudly as we came up with more examples of all the great times he's had this summer.

And then... he held my hand.

My six year old who wouldn't hug me goodbye before I left for work was now laughing with me, holding my hand! The kid I thought had outgrown my affection, who was too cool for his mom at the ripe old age of kindergarten... this kid, my baby boy, was holding my hand.

And it dawned on me. I may not be paying for much stuff anymore, but what I'm able to do is pay attention. Colin knows I'm listening to him, he knows I understand him better than I ever have. He knows I'm there for him. Colin's hand in mine, I realized there is no paycheck in the world that could make me happier than the way I felt in that moment.