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.

Truth, Lies, and Vodka

On a Thursday in May, my final day at the office, I met some colleagues at a sophisticated, dark bar for a night of drinks. After several rounds of Blue Moons, a favorite coworker, about my age and cute, took a seat beside me. Slurring his words a bit, he said, "So I'll just say it. What's the deal with you leaving? Couldn't handle the pressure of the job?"

Like usual nights out with the coworkers, I was the lone female in a group of beer guzzling guys, willing to stay out late. As a side note, I was still paying for weekly daycare, so I had no issue shipping the kids off for one last day with the sitter should I meet up with a hangover (Don't judge- you would do it too!). Anyway, I'm pretty sure my coworkers purchased several cranberry/peach vodka concoctions for me throughout the night, so my response to Cute Coworker's pressure question is a bit hazy. I think I laughed and smiled, talked about how nice it would be to spend time with the kids and nonchalantly explained that my stay-at-home decision was more of a vacation as opposed to a period of unemployment. I explained that my new life was certainly temporary, that I had started networking the heck out of people and that I was already considering several promising opportunities for the future. Like most vodka-fueled conversations with a coworker, most of this was true... though some a bit embellished. Had I charmed a vice president or two, hinting to those in power that I was available should the right position emerge? True. Did I have job opportunities lined up for the future? True... well, sort of. I had previously agreed to instruct a course in September and was happy to be doing so. However, I knew that my salary for this one course a week might cover my visits to Dunkin Donuts, and if I am very careful, a trip or two to the Banana Republic Outlet Store. Other than the very part time teaching gig, sure-- there were positions I could go for but no one was handing me a job by any means. Rejection was a scary and realistic possibility, and my unemployment period had potential to last longer than an extended vacation.

That part about looking forward to time with the kids? Um, not so much. I know that sounds really bad, but understand that outside of maternity leaves, I had always worked and frankly, my kids scared me. Being poor scared me too. Staying home was causing a big old slash in my family income. Accustomed to to being able to pay for entertainment, I questioned if I was truly creative and energetic enough to keep the kids occupied with limited resources. Choosing to stay at home with Colin and Claire was like signing up for a boot camp class at the gym. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to get through it, but after it was over, I hoped I'd be able to say that all the pain was worth it.

So one truth, a sort of truth, and a lie. And then there's that part I left out altogether when talking to Cute Coworker. Was I unable to handle the pressure of my job?

Considering that I already told you that my kids frighten me, you probably figure that something BIG must have happened to get me to the point of leaving my job. And big it was. Let's recall that "my best year ever" included a hospital stay in early March. I won't get into the details because the experience deserves a post on its own, but it was a big enough, and eye-opening enough, that I finally took a good look at myself and like Cute Coworker, wondered if it all was too much.

It was.

I don't think it matters if someone is a parent or not. I believe that for most people, it is difficult to admit to others when we are weak. And even if we're not, we worry that our actions may somehow convey that we might be seen as any version of the following: incapable, incompetent, depressed, crazy, and/or stressed. We see shame in admitting when we're tired, guilt over saying the word NO. We overexert no matter what bloated, zitty, rashy challenge faces us. (A sneak preview to my hospital stay post! You're excited, right?) To honestly explain my stay-at-home decision to others, I'd have to say, "I've struggled finding a balance and my family has suffered." Or, "I've been a little cuckoo and my children aren't getting the care they deserve." Or the most cringe-worthy, "I can't handle the stress of my job and guess what? I don't like it!" I struggled admitting my limitations to my supermom self, let alone a tipsy coworker. It was exhausting covering up my concerns toward full time motherhood, and I only truly admitted my uncertainty to my husband and to God. To both I begged, "Please tell me this will work out."

I haven't seen my bar crew since leaving my job, but should we meet up for happy hour, I look forward to talking with them about my new stay-at-home life. I look forward to telling them how much fun it is, and how good I am at it. And no need to embellish... so far it's the truth.

A New Pam and a New Blog

After all those college credits, the resume updates, presentations, networking mixers, and countless cups of Starbucks to stay awake, I found myself set to embark on my scariest career challenge yet: to be a mother. And no, I wasn't the working girl who suddenly found new meaning in life because I was pregnant. I was the working girl who had BEEN through the pregnancies-- the one who had proudly carried my breast pump to the office, the one who somehow justified paying daycare expenses that totaled more than my mortgage payment, the one crazily speeding home to make sure I was not late to baseball practice. Yes, I was superwoman, the working mother of a six year old boy named Colin and a three year old girl named Claire. I am also the wife of my Jesus-loving, wise-beyond-his-years handsome software developer of a husband, Jeff, and I believed that to many, I was the funny, outgoing, stylish, professional mother who specialized in versatility. Attend mass on Sundays? Check. Run a half marathon? Check. Head a social committee at work? Check. Maintain my fun status by drinking with friends on the weekend? Check. I took pleasure when others gawked at how I could handle it all.

Until it happened: I couldn't handle it all.

On January 30, 2010, my 29th birthday, I vowed to have my best year ever, the last hurrah before the inevitable start of my thirties. Five weeks later, sobbing in a hospital bed, I knew my plans and God's greatly differed. No one was more surprised than me when my so-called best year included leaving my job, the only prospect ahead of me something I NEVER thought I would do: stay at home with my kids.

Like many working women, I had countless conversations with colleagues about how bored we would be if we stayed home, how our kids would surely drive us to need psychiatric care, GOD FORBID- how could we even fathom surviving if we did not have the money to get pedicures? It sounds strange to me now, but I admit I often boasted about how I couldn't live without well-maintained toenails and therefore totally justified my kids being in daycare. And, to add to my pedicure argument, "The kids are SO much better off in the daycare anyway. The socialization, they know their alphabet..."

No, staying at home was certainly not for me. And then I spent five days of my best year ever laying in a hospital bed. I didn't know much of what was going on at the time, but I knew one thing: something had to change. And eventually this change, this scary, risky change, was that I was going to try the life of a stay at home mom.

Today, after being in this role for two months, I am eager to share my life-changing experiences, both fun and frustrating, as I exchange paychecks for playgrounds. My name is Pam, and while my 29th year of life certainly differs from the way I pictured it, this mother may just have her best year ever after all. We'll see.