The mom debate and why I need my inhaler!
My words are scrambled and spinning and I will for SURE offend someone today.
And yet somehow.
I don’t care. 🙂
All day. All night.
Exhaustingly, sacrificially, un-abandonly. Which may not be a word, but I’m a mom and I get to make up words.
When we moved to Nebraska two years ago, my husband and I had agreed that I could stay home.
For a while.
We could afford to do this.
Turns out we could’ve afforded this in South Dakota, but as the Mom who slept on floors and slept in cribs and sang and rocked and scratched and rubbed; as the mom who was up late, up early and who worked in and out of the home and yes as this mom, I was too sleep deprived to stand up for myself.
For my family.
The first night in Nebraska, my husband told me that I needed to get a job.
Not long after, a copy of “Working Mom” came in the mail.
It was a gift.
From my husband.
That was almost two years ago.
Yesterday I decided to read one.
First article made my skin crawl. A mom brags about catching up on emails during her son’s soccer games so that she could be “more present” with him later. Uhm, yeah. OK.
She said “Come on, how many times can you yell ‘great kick’ before they tune you out?”
I need a trash can.
I don’t care if you work; why you work or when you work, but if you’re working at your son’s soccer game, I can assure you that he cares.
Then I hop onto Facebook.
There’s a link to a Huffington post blog about the “why”.
Her daughter asks if she loves her job more than she loves her children.
The mom blows it off .
She loses all credibility from the beginning. I don’t care why she works. This piece could’ve been a powerful statement about LOVE.
Instead it was a pathetic attempt at defending her priorities.
And slamming those who don’t share in those priorities.
I scroll further.
Post from a fb friend.
“I could never be a stay at home mom. I’m pretty sure I would get tired of just organizing stuff all day.”
I need a trash can AND an inhaler.
I love my work inside the home and I’m grateful for my work outside the home. The truth is, I’ve never fit neatly into either category. I try to be both.
I have to be both.
I work while Emma Claire is at preschool.
I work while the kids have practice.
I work while they’re at AWANA.
I work while they’re with their Dad.
I would tell you that of course I don’t do it perfectly, but I can just hear it now.
“She admitted that she’s not perfect!”
You know, just for the record.
So, we were on our way home from school.
Coulter said, “Mom? Did you get my soccer ball?
“Oh Shoot! Coulter,” I said with an inner frustration that perhaps perfection had passed me by just this once, “Mom was at work all day and I just. did. not. get. there. I am so sorry.”
Wait! Where do you work?”
Should I tell this story?
I don’t know.
Will she say, you’re so lazy that your kids don’t even know where you work?
Yes, she will probably say that.
But she will be wrong.
And lazy is such a lazy word don’t you think?
I’m a mom. For Coulter—
Nothing else matters.
I made it to Walmart the next day for the soccer ball.
He has a game on Saturday.
And I will be there.
And he’ll give me a look that says, “Mom! You’re embarrassing me”
But I’ll know he’s faking.
And then, WHOA! There it is!
What? You missed it?
Because it really was a great kick.
It was a great kick!