I'm excited to be posting over at Grace for Moms again today, this time about the nature of apology.

You know the women who apologize for everything, even things that couldn’t possibly be about them or their fault? They are innate peacemakers; they are self-sacrificial and surrender pride at any moment for the sake of reconciliation. I admire those women, but I am not one of them. I have not been known to be a quick apologizer.  I’ve never see the justice in it when I know I’m right; and I don’t relish being quick to admit I’m wrong.  This is a known shortcoming.

Check out the full post here.

It’s almost a week into this latest version of working motherhood. I’m working from home, consulting for a former employer.  The work and people are familiar, but the confines are not.

As a wife and a mother, I find myself living in tension. Between what I always thought it would be like and what it is, between who I am and who I’m becoming, between what I used to do and where I am now. I’ve found unexpected joy and disappointment in every situation.

When I was pregnant with my eldest daughter, I remember wondering if I’d really be taken with her.  I worried I wouldn’t be.  I did not particularly enjoy being pregnant, and was not one of those “miracle of life” people. She was very much wanted, and I was excited to be a mother, but there was so much I didn’t know.  I wasn’t sure I’d be any good at it.  I remember being relieved when I cried tears of joy when our baby was born. 

The moment I saw my slimey, coneheaded, squirmy daughter, I instantly knew I would do anything for her, that I loved her with a love that was far too big and all encompassing for me to understand. I felt like, for a split second, I had seen the face of God.  I suddenly possessed a sliver of understanding about His unreasonable love for us; I was suddenly on the inside. I started to understand my parents’ hopefulness, disappointments and unending love. I knew I had just experienced the best and most important thing of my life thus far.

Motherhood has changed me.  Marriage has changed me.  Adulthood has changed me. And yet, some things are the same.

I am an achiever. At the end of the day, I am comforted by checks on a list, line items crossed off, pats on the back.  I like clean floors and empty hampers, lit candles and echoing laughter, full fridges and empty sinks, paid bills and organized desks, hard work and paychecks with my name on them, home and work and clear lines between. I like music blaring and screens turned off, quality time spent with loved ones—one-on-one time with my daughters, my husband, myself. Moments so precious my heart can’t hold them.

Since quitting my job and relocating our family, I haven’t had everything on that list and I certainly haven’t had them all at the same time.

There are things I never knew about myself until I quit my job. I never knew I needed affirmation until I’d been home every day, all day, cooking, cleaning and mothering without so much as an “atta girl.”  My children should expect their mother to take pride in taking care of them, and I do.  My husband is wonderful, but I don’t expect him to hover and tell me “great job” every time I do a mundane task (for the tenth time in a day).

Bagging groceries one day, I absently answered my children’s countless questions. As I steered our heavy cart out of the store, a woman who had been watching us said, “You are doing a great job.”  It touched me to the point of tears. 

No one says this to mothers. I can’t be the only one who sometimes feels invisible, can I? And so I vow to tell the outstanding mothers I know,“I see you. What you are doing matters. And you are doing it well.”

And another thing? I like making money. I didn’t really know that until I wasn’t doing it anymore. I like having work in common with my husband; I like feeling like I can relate to him. I’m not saying this makes sense (he says it sort of doesn’t).  I’m just saying staying home showed me this about myself.

So last week when I had the chance to take a short-term consulting job, I did.  Never mind that I didn’t know what it actually entailed or how I would continue all the jobs I have assumed in our home and to our children at the same time.

Always before, when I worked, I had help. Someone to care for my children and provide meaningful moments for them when I couldn’t be there.  Occasionally someone cleaned my house.  Last year I was even spoiled with someone making us dinner and doing the girls’ laundry.  I felt so guilty about all these things. I felt I “should” be doing them. 

Who taught me this? Not my parents.  My dad has insisted he and my mom hire a house cleaner-- that it is an expense that is well worth it. Not my husband, for sure, and definitely not my church.  Some of it comes from outside, from this subculture I have stumbled upon that I’ve seen paint motherhood and womanhood with a very narrow brush and then sign God’s name to the painting. I bristle at this. I don’t like strangers telling me what I should be doing, and that it's the same as what everyone else is doing.

But then I am the one trying to do it all, all the time. No one is forcing me to feel this way. I want it done quickly and well; I want it to look easy.  I want to do it while looking pulled together and with a smile on my face, then I get upset when (of course) this doesn’t happen.  I’m just not sure it’s sane or even possible.  And when we make it seem like it's not only possible but necessary, I think we’re doing other women a disservice.

This week I worked every day.  Sometimes on a laptop on the dining room table covered with play doh, sometimes while the girls napped, sometimes on conference calls while they watched TV, sometimes late into the night after taking hours off for dinner and baths and bedtime stories.  Sometimes they were in the care of trusted others, but mostly not.  Some days I got up before the sun, made breakfasts, folded laundry, did yoga, took a shower and put myself together, read my Bible, did preschool drop off and pickup, made homemade soup for lunch, made beds, and planned activities for the kids. Sometimes.  Other days I smacked the snooze button and cuddled up with the little one in my bed who had a bad dream about ducks that eat people, then got up just in time to shower, feed everyone and pour a cup of coffee before starting my workday at the kitchen counter.

I don’t know what working from home is supposed to look like.  But then, I don’t know what staying home is supposed to look like either. If there’s a right way to do this, I haven’t found it yet. But I am doing it.

So far, I’m learning to stretch and to balance, to take on, to let go.  I’m learning I may need to be okay with changing the status quo for a few weeks, and that that’s okay. At some point, there will be a little girl’s voice in the background of a conference call (probably singing The Lumineers’ “Stubborn Love” at the top of her raspy voice). Regardless of how it goes, I’m so grateful for this opportunity to be a little bit of everything. I’m enjoying contributing professionally, being sought after and performing well.

Standing with one foot in two different worlds is challenging. However it goes, I think I can’t help but happily welcome the days of “doing nothing” but taking care of the house and being with my kids when they come back around again.

Someone in our house has been sick since Christmas. At first it was me, for about three weeks. When I started experiencing severe positional vertigo, perhaps brought on by the weeks of severe congestion, I finally sought medical attention.  I had about a week of relief before I got some other kind of upper respiratory nastiness. Then our kids got a series of viruses spanning almost a month. 

Aside from my pregnancy, and the usual annual visits, I don’t think any of us saw a doctor of any kind at all in 2012.  But in the first week of February, I visited our new pediatrician’s office three times, and our family has frequented our local urgent care on four occasions. 

Those three weeks from January into February were the worst. Daniel traveled most of the time, and there was a 10-day period when I think I left the house only twice. We were quarantined, sick, cranky, lonely and running low on supplies.  One morning when I was letting the kids make a mess in our garden tub—because, really, what else were we going to do? – another mom from Mirabella’s preschool class called, frantic.  She’d been cooped up for two weeks, both she and her little one sick, and wanted to compare notes.  I wished we could have had a sickie play date just to get out of the house. 

We finally got (mostly) well, when Daniel came down with a sinus infection.  Last Friday while I was in Indiana with my college girlfriends, he texted me: “Where’s the thermometer?”

“You don’t have a fever,” I replied, as he sometimes has a low tolerance for sickness.

“99.5,” he shot back.

“Did you take it under your arm?” I teased.

“Yes.”

At this point, the girls and I were snickering. “That’s for the kids. Take it under your tongue.”

 “Still 99.5,” he said, “and now you just made me lick my armpit. Thanks for that.”

As our weekend went on, with burgers and beer, a tasting at a winery, delicious farm-to-table and scratch-made lunch and brunch, so much talking I lost my voice, and two hours spent wandering in a discount book store, Daniel’s weekend was spent on the couch.  Mirabella had made a list of fun things to do on “Daddy Weekend,” most of which went undone.  Nearly a week later, he is still on the couch with bronchitis and pneumonia and an allergic reaction to his medication.

So our new year has mostly revolved around ailing, caring and complaining.

Now, after a whirlwind couple of days, I’m about to start my first consulting gig since our move. I’m excited to contribute, to venture out, to go back, and to grow. It’s not terribly unlike the work I’ve done before, except  I have no idea how to juggle it all within the confines of my new life. I’m praying for fair winds and a following sea, flexible and forgiving children, and help I haven’t yet found. And, of course, a kibosh on the sickness already.