Always & Never

I’ve been a working mom for almost 20 years. I’ve been an obsessive mom for about the same length of time.

I find it ironic that, as a single person without kids, I was the perfect parent. I knew everything there was to know about raising children and my parenting vocabulary was peppered with the words “never” and “always.” Example: I will never let my child eat in front of the television and my kid will always behave in stores and I will never work once I have kids and I will always be there for them when they come home after school.

I also find it ironic that, as a working mom, I was both impressed by a woman’s ability to become a stay-at-home mom (as it drove me crazy) and scornful when her stay-at-homeness went on to long. In fact, I was a SAHM until my second son was 10-months old, and the solitary, toddlerian nature of it (my older son was 2.5 years) drove me insane. I didn’t complain much when finances forced me back to work.

Admittedly, however, I thought those women that continued to be SAH moms once their kids went back to school were spoiled. And crazy. And what the heck did they do with all their time? Television, bon-bons (do people even eat those anymore?) and hair appointments. Maybe a volunteering gig every once in awhile.

It wasn’t for me. I wanted a career, and I loved that I was intelligent and hard working and driven. I wanted to succeed and keep on growing and to continue to aim ever higher for the next advancement.

Except advancement stopped coming. And I’d grown both complacent and disappointed. My work life eventually went from invigorating me, to becoming the center of my dread.

When the day arrived—when I stepped on the landmine that shot me completely off the same dreary path I’d been on for over a decade—I was disoriented. Then nervous. Then relieved. Few people anticipate being laid off; fewer people hope for it. So when you realize you were secretly hoping for some way to escape the frustrating, soul-sucking slog that your career had become, sudden unemployment can be a blessing in disguise.

I spend my days taking care of all the things I’ve ignored for years, like cleaning the refrigerator or organizing the linen closet. And other things I’ve wanted to do, like helping my own kids with their homework—instead of having to rely on some after school program to do it for me. Making dinner is no longer the intense, stressful rush to get home from work and get it on the table before whisking kids off to whatever practice or activity comes next. I can plan for it. And enjoy the creativity of it.

Life has slowed down. While I’m still able to see the forest for the trees, now I’m able to stop and actually appreciate the trees. However, “always” and “never” still cloud my vocabulary. As in: I will always appreciate this time, and will never forget how grateful I am to have had it.

Step into the void

Mom and I are chatting over lunch, like we do. It seems my overwhelming pride for my son—who graduates in June and will be attending San Francisco State University in the fall—simultaneously explodes in my chest and is tempered by my realization of the passage of time. Or, maybe just my acknowledgment of it.

I feel guilty. Normally, I’m predisposed to thinking that guilt is a useless emotion. When others are awash in it, my advice is that they rectify the situation, or release their attachment to it. Either way, move on. Guilt in and of itself is a hot mess that keeps people from acting. So, drop the guilt and act.

Except, of course, it’s ME we’re talking about here and no matter how hard I try to give up my guilt fetish it seems I manage find new ways to revel in it.

What’s got me in a choke hold is that, lately, I can’t stop thinking about when my son was about a week old; I’d looked at this tiny, trusting little human being and—despite the stitches and the achy lady parts?—still wonder when his real mom was going to come and get him. And then I would remember I was his real mom, and that awesome job would evermore be left to me.

Pause.

Really? A mom? I was a mom? How could it be? I mean, I was barely 23-years-old. People that young shouldn’t be allowed to breed let alone take on the responsibility of ensuring that tiny people live and thrive and grow into much bigger ones.

But the one thing that sated me then, as I made the emotional transition from self-absorbed-it’s-all-about-me young woman to never-again-the-center-of-my-own-Universe mom, was the thought that in 18 years, I’d be done. My shift would be over and I could clock out. This baby—my baby—would have grown into a young adult and go seek his fortune and I could go back to being the sun in my own solar system. YAY me!

Fast forward 18 years, to me sitting in a café with my mother with a look of complete consternation. All I can think, and what I finally give voice to, is that I totally did this to myself. I wished for it, actually willed it to happen before I knew what I was doing and now there was no way I could ever take it back—because it was ALREADY HAPPENING.

When I confess my horrendousness to my mom, she smiles that I-know-what-you-mean smile. “There’s something about the first child and the last child making those big steps in the world,” she says. “Because as you watch those two take their big steps, you’re also taking two huge, emotional steps, as well. Watching that first little bird leave the nest comes with the acknowledgment that his leaving is necessary. He has to go out into the world and live his own life. And the reality that they really do leave, and that your family dynamics will change, is that first step toward the reality that they all go.

“And then when the last one goes…” she pauses and we both nod, not wanting to say or hear anything about “empty nests” and “chapters closing” and “the passage of time,” et al. “And it’s not that you feel any differently about the middle ones. Not at all—you still feel that pull. The contrast is that, with the other two, your feelings mark the beginning and the end of that passage in your life.”

I don’t know why, but I suddenly don’t feel guilty anymore. A little sad, sure, but somewhere in our conversation I forgave myself for being young and fearful of stepping into the unknown. That unknown has been my comfortable, well-worn world for many years now. I drink my tea and sigh, and acknowledge that I’m not that young woman anymore. But I’m about to leap into the void again.

Egg on my face

I chatted with a coworker. Then another. Walked down the hall, filled my water cup and cleaned out my coffee mug, saying hello to others in the office along the way.

It was a pleasant morning. I was in a relatively good mood when I sat down at my computer with my newly-filled mug of fresh, steaming joe.  And I noticed my face itched a little bit. And when I scratched, a chunk fell off.

A CHUNK FELL OFF MY FACE.

It was egg. I had a poached egg on toast for breakfast some two hours prior, and this gigantic yellow homing beacon had infested my face THE ENTIRE TIME.

How many coworkers had I chatted with? And why hadn't I noticed their inability to sustain eye contact or the fact they'd all been rubbing their cheeks?

Mortifying.

I blame my husband. He'd said nothing to me about the massive glop when he kissed me goodbye this morning.

...on my cheek.

Oh. My. Gawd.