I have wasted a lot of time flogging myself mentally for not measuring up to the level of wife and mother set as an example by my own mother. Maybe my memory is frayed, but I do not recall my childhood home ever being as messy and frenetic as my home now. My memories of my mother when growing up do not include a harried and harassed lady with little time for any but the most basic personal grooming, and whose very being emitted a sense of no control. Granted, these are the memories of a child, but I am afraid my mother herself has confirmed the worst:
“Your life is crazy!”
What really burns my biscuits is that my life is less crazy than some other mothers I know, who seem to be able to cram in a whole lot more, and still keep their roots from showing. I quit my work-at-home-so-you–can–be-stressed-all-the-time job when my youngest was about 11 months, and yet I do not seem to be faring any better with all the “extra time”. I’m not lazy. I try very hard. My life is crazy but I believe I am reasonably sane (of course, what looney believes herself to be looney?).
So what the heck am I doing wrong?
The answer came to me a couple of weeks ago. My five year old son had a friend over for a play date. The boy’s mom stayed for a little mom-to-mom chat while the kids tore the house apart. It had taken me a week to get ready for this little event. A kid, not my own, was coming over to my house, coming inside my house, with his mother. That required extensive preparation. Like not letting them see how we really live. And making sure I had an assortment of healthy kid snacks in case he was picky, and a similar array for his mom. The kids had a great time, and so did I.
But here’s where the realization set in.
I never had a play date when I was a kid. My mom had nothing to do with my playing with other kids. I’d walk or ride my bike to a friend’s house, knock on the door, and ask if so-and-so could come out and play. Come out and play. We would almost always play outside, and in fact we had to ask permission to play indoors. Many times the answer was “No!”. If the house was a mess, I never saw it. There was no need to “get ready” for your kids to play with other kids. And although I received the occasional glass of milk, my friends’ mothers were under no obligation to provide snacks. Sometimes I never even saw a parent. The child would come outside to play, and when it seemed like it was getting close to dinner, I went home. A similar scenario played out if a child came to my house.
With the dawning realization of just how different my stay at home mom life was from my mother’s, I thought about all the other areas I had to be involved in with my children that was unheard of in Mom’s day. We didn’t have a lot of after school activities, because we could go and play outside, on the sidewalk, down the street, wherever, without worry. Mom didn’t need to keep us under her watchful eye every single second. If we did have an activity, chances are it was within walking or biking distance, and we had to get our little butts there ourselves. Mom didn’t haul us all over the county. I didn’t have a schedule. Didn’t want one. I was a kid, for gosh sakes!
My life, in contrast, revolves around my children’s schedules. They cannot safely walk two blocks to play with a friend, or go to the school playground or local park without supervision. Anything they do outside our own home requires parental involvement. No wonder I feel sometimes like I have lost myself. I’m not lost, but I am certainly low priority. The world is so much more complicated and threatening than my childhood world. I don’t know if there is really more danger, but there is certainly more awareness. I’ve seen the online state list of prosecuted pedophiles who live in my zip code. How many little faces arrive on flyers in the mail, asking if I’ve seen them? Like any 21st century mother, I am determined my children will never be anyone’s victim, will never have their faces on any mass mailings.
I still hate the mess. I hate always having to hurry. I hate never having enough time for anything. But I look at it differently, now. I see it is not my fault I can’t be like my mom, at least not entirely. She really did have more time to get things done than I do. She cared for us, and did it well, but she didn’t share every moment of our lives with us.
My life is crazy because I am not living my life. I am living my children’s lives, or facilitating their living their lives. I have chosen this. If I still worked outside the home I could probably find a piece of my mind and maybe a few intelligence cells that still work, but I sacrificed that willingly, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Besides, I really couldn’t guarantee that more time would make me a better housekeeper or more organized. At least this way I have an excuse! Heaven help me when the kids are grown and gone. I’ll just have to plead senility then.