Mirror, Mirror

So, I wrote this piece last year right after I got knocked up with my second. It's mushy, full of sentiment, and it flew out of me like those bats in New Mexico. It was written for more of a paper publication, but I never had the guts to submit it and face rejection. I'd rather just hold on to it like Gollum and his ring. I just quoted Lord of the Rings. Sorry for that. I hope you can identify with a morsel of it:

I found myself staring at the mirror five months after my daughter was born wondering two things. 1.) Who is that bloated chick staring back at me with a fat suit strapped to her midsection? 2.) Have I made a colossal mistake staying home with her? The first one was warranted a quick cackling "I'll get you my half marathon body, and your tight tushy too." The second one haunted me. Mostly with guilt and a good amount of shame. That I would even doubt my current mom status, the freedom from time clocks and button up starch, really bugged me. Having that thought kept me awake many nights afterward wondering if I should tell my husband, book a therapist, or just paste on a fake smile.

My husband knew something was up. Would I want to go back to work? Do I need time to myself? How about a mother's day out program? The most honest answer I could have given him at the time was yes; I want to go back to work.

Let me start by saying that we didn't win the lottery to "allow" me to be a stay-at-home-mom. My husband earns a modest, not extravagant, salary, we share the same ten-year-old vehicle, and our current residence is an 1,100 square foot apartment on the third floor. No picket fence or plushed-out Odyssey with drop down entertainment cube. A move for me to quit my job is a sacrifice on many fronts. We knew it and are reminded of it each of the thirty-four steps it takes to make the ascent home.

Back to my awkward mirror staring, I have deep struggling that makes me question my role. While I don't regret the decision to stay home, I wonder at the emotional struggle facing me in the gut. Yes, I want to go back to work. Not that teaching is the most enriching, career climbing path. I could leave the polite educator of the year nominations, atta girl emails, and the I'm-so-glad-I-got-you-as-my-teacher's. Although it would be great to bring home some bacon (obviously it would help) that isn't central either.

To be given an assignment, finish it with excellence, and check it off a list gives me a rush. I glean extreme satisfaction from task completion. If working in the corporate world is meticulous and measurable, motherhood is the absolute antithesis. No matter how hard I try, gauging success in parenting is impossible--not in a child's sleep schedule, eating quality, or development. No amount of documentation can identify every problem and solution in Babyland. To be a mother you must only be, not do.

So combine my type-Aism and newly crowned role as caretaker to the nonverbal and you have a borderline depressed individual. Whereas my husband and I were on equal professional footing prior to said bundle of joy, we have morphed into what feels like a subordinate/superior work relationship. And I have the good, family-involved, supportive variety who encourages girls nights out. Yes, I would like to go back to work. But should I?

When I decided to go for the plunge two weeks later and consider job applications and day care, still another feeling crept in. This one wasn't as much self-loathing as the tingling sensation after downing half a bottle of Tums. If I were to go back to the time card punching work force, what deep desire would I be looking to satisfy? How is that life more fulfilling than the mommy kind? My answer was as obvious as the baby weight perched on my hips. I don't feel worthy being "just" a mom.

To make matters worse, the people I've confided in encouraged me to do what makes me happy, a popular yet odd euphemism. Eating five gallons of mint chocolate chip ice cream would make me happy. Hopping on a plane to Italy would make me happy. Even leaving my life seems to offer happiness sometimes. The problem is happy is like a pretty fireworks display. It bursts, colorful and exuberant, igniting smiles and taste of ripe watermelon; then leaves a musty, degenerating skeleton that fades into the nighttime abyss. Happy is deceiving and very temperamental. To pursue it relentlessly it leaves an exhaustion that only steadfast joy can relieve. People who thrive on happiness alone end up with three spouses and a leased convertible.

So if I were to do what makes me happy today, it probably won't do the trick tomorrow. What if I am meant to be my daughter's primary caretaker, whether I want to or not? What if I am the only person on the planet designed to fit that role; that no other person, no matter how benevolent and loving, can even come close to filling my shoes, even on my worst day? Because I only get one shot to share a juicy pineapple with her for the first time. Or teach her how to drink from a straw. Or see a huge toothy grin when she dips her tiny toes in the apartment pool. Simply put: I can, so I should. Not just on the weekends, but everyday.

I don't miss work. I miss the fake feeling of value that comes with a wage. I miss my grande soy lattes and late night movies. I miss size 6 jeans. Yet I know what I don't want to miss the next time I stare into a mirror. Days saturated with airplane leg rides, belly laughs, tears, and mouthfuls of blueberries. From the mundane to the firsts, this fat chick needs to be there.