by real Richmond mom (well, she’s originally from Richmond), Kristin Alexander
Kristin Alexander blogs about everything from motherhood to stink bugs at her virtual mind dump, That’s What She Said. Follow her on Twitter at @Kalexa75.
She walks toward me, arms outstretched in apparent benevolence, grasping the TV remote. I say thank you and take it from her, placing it away from little hands lest we find ourselves with another accidental order of The Bounty Hunter on pay-per-view. With the remote safely out of reach, I kneel in front of her ready for hugs and kisses.
Instead, she slaps my cheek. Hard. With purpose. My penance, I assume, for taking her “toy” away from her. With a firm, “No! We don’t hit!” I take her hand and place it by her side. And with that one act, the face contorts, the knees crumple, and my 14-month-old throws herself backward in total meltdown mode.
I stare down at her with a mixture of incredulity and sadness. “I’m sorry you’re so upset,” I say. “I hope you feel better soon.” Then, giving us both a moment to regain our composure, I walk away in frustration.
A few minutes later we have the nightly battle with her high chair, wherein she bucks and flops against the tray, looking much like a fish out of water who’s possibly also having a seizure. And a little while after that, yet another meltdown just before bed.
My child is not a brat. It’s the end of the day, and she’s simply tired. It’s not her fault. It’s exhausting to spend the day singing songs, putting together puzzles, playing with blocks, learning at the sensory table, climbing on the indoor play structure and all the other fun things she does at daycare. All with a sweet, affectionate demeanor about which her teachers rave.
And then she comes home.
Not all evenings are bad, of course. Some are really great. But most fall somewhere squarely in the middle. And on this particular night, as I gratefully put her to bed after a mere two hours of togetherness, I sadly reflect – not for the first time – that for five out of seven days a week, I don’t get to experience the best of my child.
For most of the week, I’m not the one watching her eyes light up when breakfast – her most favorite meal of the day – is served. Her teachers are. For most of the week, I don’t get to enjoy mornings with her when she’s happy, playful, and liberally doling out affection. Her teachers do. For most of the week, I won’t be the recipient of her smiles when she wakes up from her afternoon nap, alert and ready to play again. Her teachers will.
I’m the one who serves her dinner and, therefore, facilitates the nightly high chair battle; the one who handles the abrupt mood swings during evening playtime, when her little body and mind are utterly worn out from the day; the one who’s forced to wake her from contented sleep in the mornings and then struggles to dress her throughout the resulting fussiness.
For most of the week, I’m all work and no play. The bad guy. The punching bag.
This is not something on which I ruminate daily as I trudge through life wondering if the grass is greener on the other side. No, this is the sort of reality check that generally hits just when I’m finally starting to feel like I have this whole work-life balance thing figured out. When I’m humming along nicely and kind of feeling like supermom. And when I’m happiest and most confident in my job.
It’s a job that, like any job, doesn’t always leave me feeling happy and confident. It’s also, however, a job that allows me the best possible scenario in terms of scope, location, and flexibility. But it’s a job I’m not sure I’d keep if a single income was a realistic possibility for my husband and me. Because – let’s face it – I’ve never been the most career-minded person.
And yet, without this job, I wonder if a part of me would feel lost. Lacking. Ungrounded.
So, as I reflect on all of this, I concede – again, not for the first time – that I will most likely never reconcile the ongoing conflict that churns within me over being a working mom.
You can read more at Kristin’s Blog That’s What She Said
