When do you stop thinking about what you want to be when you grow up? When I was eleven, I was going to be president. Specifically, the president of the United States of America, not the president of the International French Fries Dipped in a Hot Fudge Sundae Fan Club. I even had my running mate lined up. I'm not sure when I decided that politics was not for me - maybe around the time I realized that politicians have to speak in public a lot and a career in politics is thus an unwise choice for someone who would rather dig out her appendix with a ballpoint pen than talk in front of a large crowd. Other career ambitions I let go: drummer (I only played for a few months), Rockette (too short), first female quarterback in the NFL (I've never even liked football, so who knows where that idea came from), professional Cabbage Patch doll namer (that's probably not even a job).
I always planned to be a mother. I also used to think I'd stay at home fulltime with my kids - before launching my presidential campaign when my kids were in middle school, of course. Most of the time, I like my job at a local community foundation. Let me take a moment to acknowledge how lucky I am - I work four days each week, I don't punch in or out, I have generous benefits, I work with good people, and I don't have to abide by one of those antiquated pantyhose-required policies. I'm not a single parent and I'm only trying to care for one healthy baby. My work/home life balance, as the magazines call it, is closer to an easygoing teeter-totter than a rollercoaster. I know I have nothing to complain about.
Some weeks are harder than others. Sometimes I wish I could spend more time with my son. Monday, for example: my husband was on shift, so he left the house by a little before 6. While he was headed out the door, I nursed Axel, both of us in our pajamas. I then scrambled to get us both ready and load up the car. Axel was having a don't-put-me-down-Mama morning, and though I've gotten pretty good at doing things one-handed, I dropped the bag with my breakfast in it and splattered soy yogurt all over the kitchen floor. I plopped Axel in his exersaucer, and he promptly released an enormous runny poop the color of spinach, which spurted out his diaper, all over his clothes, down his leg, and all over the exersaucer. After cleaning him, his toy, the floor, and myself, we finally got out the door - both in new outfits. Let me just say that the day at work was not my favorite. It was a struggle just to pump seven ounces of milk, less than half of what I usually get. By the time I got back down to daycare to pick up Axel, battled traffic, and made it home, it was after 6 - Axel's dinner time - and so we rushed to begin the dinner/playtime/bedtime routine. By 8:15, when he was asleep, I was exhausted, and still had to do breast pump and bottle clean up and preparation for the next day, feed myself something decent, and do more work. Oh, and clean up the dog pee on the living room floor (thanks, Angus).
When I got to daycare earlier that same day, Axel sat on the floor, gnawing on the blue plastic arch of a floor gym. He'd crawled out of his shorts - most of his pants are too big in the waist for him, though they're the right length. As I walked over, he grinned and reached up toward me, then started giggling. I dressed him in his shorts and socks, and he laughed some more, either because he knew he'd just pull them off as soon as he got into the car or maybe (as I like to think) because he was so happy to see me. Most of my waking hours with him were spent frantically getting ready to leave the house, in the car, or getting him fed and ready for bed. It was the sort of day that prompts me to do frantic budget projections for one-salary, rice-and-beans living.
Days I'm alone with Axel aren't necessarily easier or better. They, too, contain explosive poops and a dog who believes it is his duty to eat one sock out of each pair of Axel's socks. There are nap battles, frustration when Axel gets fussy, countless mugs of tea that grow cold before I can drink them. At work, I get a chance to sit down and drink my tea. What's more, I like working outside of the home. At least, I think I do. Most days. I don't know. I can make a hundred general arguments for working outside of the home or for not working outside of the home, but I'm having a hard time sorting through what it means to me.
I guess I'm officially a grown up, though I don't always feel that way. I can check off all the boxes my eleven-year-old self associated with being a grown-up: have a child, hire babysitters, drive, can answer Trivial Pursuit questions that aren't about cartoons, have purchased a lottery ticket, can eat all the bomb pops I want without my mom nagging me. When I was a kid, the lives of the adults around me seemed set. They had decided what to be, and that's what they were. Or, if they hadn't decided, they still were something - a lawyer, a librarian, a bagger at the grocery store, a father - and that was that. Their lives were as permanent as I thought my blood-sister bonds were. Now I know that their lives weren't fixed. I've only kept in touch with one of my blood sisters.
I know that parents who stay at home with their children or who work from home have a unique set of challenges. Neither choice works for every family, and neither choice works for every family all the time. Choice is a luxury. My father has always told me that having options is the best position to be in, and I agree. But this philosophy can get me into trouble - sometimes, the challenge is deciding to close off an option, to diminish the choices available to yourself. Sometimes options are closed off easily or naturally, sometimes choices are clear, and sometimes they're a tangle. We can't have it all all of the time. I will never be a Rockette. Katarina Aurelia Sunshine the Cabbage Patch Kid will never come rolling off the production line. Grown-ups don't always know what they're going to be.
