Teeter-Totter

Tuesday found me in my pajamas at noon—face unwashed, teeth unbrushed, I read an email cross-legged on my unmade bed while The Babyman pulled jewelry and discarded price tags off my bureau.

Why not try to call the guy?

I chewed a finger, looked at the laundry on the floor. The guy in question was a famous clothing designer who said a not-very-nice thing about mothers.

OK.

An hour later, I was on the phone with a hoity-toity high-end fashion house, leaving messages and laughing at the back of my throat even as I said the words.

Ah, if he could call me back, that would be great.

It was 1 p.m. It was time for The Babyman’s nap. I hung up the phone and the boy pointed at the handset in my palm.

“Hello?” he said, eyes bright and hopeful. “Hello? Hello?”

He held out one small hand, beseechingly.

Instead I made him a bottle and carried him to his crib. I placed him in a nest of slightly sour-smelling blankets, the corner of his two most beloved blankies crusty. He chews on them when he falls asleep.

I kissed him, brushed his newly shorn locks from his forehead. The whole day was gone; when he woke, it would be time to fetch his big sister from school and the machinery of dinner and bath time would take over. As I watched him look up at me, I mourned the day we didn’t spend together.

***

Working from home isn’t easy. Minds and wits sharper than my own debate the issue, so I won’t presume to make A Statement about WOHMs, WAHMs or SAHMs.

But what I will say is that, for me, there is no other option. Working writers like me don’t make a lot of money. To practice my trade full-time, at a newspaper, would be just plain silly, financially speaking. My paycheck (and that presumes I could even find such a job) would barely cover daycare costs.

I will also say that I am quite happy, indeed, with the work I am doing right now. It is fun, engaging and, at last, well-paying. My efforts net me a solid chunk of change, money that our family needs.

But then there are days like Tuesday, when I’m late right out of the gate. I woke up late, despite my best intentions. I was late getting The Poo’s lunch together, late getting her ready for school, late getting her out the door.

I was distracted by work emails when I should have been feeding The Babyman. Instead, I set him loose in the family room with a frozen waffle and some OJ.

Laundry moldered in the machine and dirty clothes were strewn all over the house. The floor was sticky. I didn’t get a shower.

And I worked my ass off, writing four stories, several of them updating two or three times in the 20 minutes it took me to write the original drafts.

At one point, I was making phone calls and The Babyman pulled the Forbidden Box of Crayons™ off the kitchen table, where I put it after hastily instructing The Poo to write in her school journal earlier in the morning.

I looked on helplessly, mouth spewing out my name, phone number and affiliation, as the child dumped crayons on the floor. He followed that up with a spray of colored pencils. Gleefully, he scribbled on a board book, knowing that I was busy doing something else and that I wasn’t going to stop him.

***

I knew I wanted to write for a living, and I knew I wanted to do it on my own terms. I don’t like having a boss. I don’t like offices and pant suits, though I do love a nice pair of high-heeled boots.

I knew I wanted to raise my children at home. I knew I wanted to make messes with them, read books on rainy afternoons, bake cookies just because. I wanted to be with them as they were formed, as my mother was with me.

I wanted that, for them—but mostly for me. Their sweet babyness breaks my heart every day, the fleeting moments of their childhood so precious to me that, if pressed, I would give up most anything to have the privilege of being a stay-at-home mom.

But now that I am a work-at-home mom, I find myself losing track of the rainy afternoons, or spending those hours writing while standing up at the kitchen counter, throwing The Babyman a smile, murmuring at The Poo while she spins fanciful tales I only half-hear.

Some days I feel like I’m on a teeter-totter all by myself, frantically sliding from one side to the other to keep the contraption going up and down, up and down.

Some days, like Tuesday, I wonder just how I got here, and exactly where I think I’m going.

Tagged as: career, daily, motherhood, The Babyman, The Poo, writing life