I’ve noticed a theme running through my conversations with friends in a similar stage of motherhood as I am, about work. Some of my friends, like me, are fortunate enough to have a choice about whether they work. Others don’t work because they can’t afford the childcare. Others work full or part time, and wrestle with the feeling that they are never fully present anywhere, while still others are trailing military spouses who have forgone their careers for a season to raise children while they move every few years.

It’s come up a lot lately, as since March I have worked a part-time job that I wasn’t looking for. It’s not a dream job. It’s definitely not great timing. And yet, after several hilariously direct conversations with my potential employer, I ended up going for it.
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In the week I was learning and mulling, I sat in a circle of women, mostly mothers and one young newlywed, and fielded this question: “Christina, do you ever regret staying home with your kids?”

It’s an interesting one whose answer is more complicated than it seems on the surface. Short answer: Of course not. But do I miss work? Absolutely. I miss tackling problems that can be solved, feeling proficient at something, making money, having my work (and, sometimes, very existence) validated. I miss going to work sometimes, which this part-time-from-home solution does nothing to solve, but which I’m not looking to solve at this moment. Naturally, the perks of being able to stay home with my children are numerous. I’m available for field trips and sick days; I’m there every day when my girls get off the bus. I get to go to a mom’s group, a morning Bible study and playdates; I get to read stories every afternoon before nap time; I get to be outside on perfect days and take impromptu trips to the park or the beach; I get to have coffee or lunch with friends on occasion; I get to go to Trader Joe’s on a Tuesday morning instead of with the masses on Saturday afternoons or weekdays after five.
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But do I worry about the gap in my resume and experience? Definitely. Our workplace culture—in general— isn’t kind to mothers. I remember fielding the insinuation, when I had two babies and worked full time, that someone else was raising my children. And since I’ve been home, I’ve sometimes felt the accusation that I’m somehow “wasting” my time, education, experience or talents by being home. That I’m not living up to my “potential.”

​Since I started working in March, my house is mostly a mess most of the time. I have said no to things I would have rather done. I have run out of coffee on several occasions; I ran out of milk on my husband’s birthday and had to borrow some from our next door neighbor so he could have coffee when he woke up. I haven’t seen the bottom of any of our hampers in nearly three months. I have fed my children differently than I’d prefer more often than I’d prefer. I’ve spent a small fortune on fill-in-the-gap childcare. I haven’t done a properly planned-out grocery shopping trip, and I have dragged my son on errands when he should have been napping because I couldn’t waste my kid-free time on shopping.

But also, I have been reminded that I am competent. I have skills, knowledge and abilities that make me a desirable employee. I can exhibit a level of professionalism on the phone that belies the fact that I’m sitting at a desk in my cluttered laundry room/office, praying my child stays enthralled with the show he’s watching since he is skipping his nap today.

I model behaviors for my children every day, and while I obviously feel that staying home with my children is a high calling and worthy use of my time, I am excited to show them—especially my daughters—that women are more than just what they are able to do for others. Sure, I model this in how I carve out time for myself and my passions and friends, but I am excited to show them, now that they are old enough to notice, that this can apply to work as well.

Now more than ever, I am embracing what I’ve always known to be true: there is no right way. This might work well for us for now, for the duration of this contract. When our little girl arrives this summer, it will not. I reserve the right to shift, and I am grateful for the freedom I have to change my mind. I am grateful for an employer who, though she cannot relate to being a mother, recognizes the need mothers have for flexibility in their work options and does not see this as a liability.  I wish more employers realized the upside of hiring women in this season of life—of offering them something other than an all-or-nothing proposition.

​Absolutely, I recognize that having this to wrestle over at all is in itself a privilege that not many are afforded. If you find yourself in that place, without options, I hope you never for a minute allow yourself to feel guilt or condemnation for your situation. Whether you work by necessity, choice, or some combination of the two, or whether you’re home because you have to be, because you want to be, or a little of both, I hope you find rest in the knowledge that you are doing the best you can for your family, and that is always enough.  I don’t know whether my choice was wise or ill-timed, but I’m working to navigate it with as much poise as I can muster, and I’m proud of the effort if not always the results. And I’m maybe illogically looking forward to a couple months from now, when work falls away and focusing all of my efforts on welcoming our newborn will—in some ways—feel like a relief. ​

Since this joyful little boy joined our family last year, I’ve been acutely aware of pockets. Those small periods in my day in which I can reasonably hope to get something done. When I first quit my day job to come home with my kids, almost three years ago, the days spread out before me.  They seemed vast. My girls were two and four, and we had moved just outside Nashville, where we knew no one. We had no commitments, nowhere to be, nothing to do, and Daniel was traveling most of the time. It was completely disorienting. Our neighborhood was younger than the GPS in our SUV, so oftentimes I could get help navigating to wherever I wanted to go, but it could never get me home. I found this utterly symbolic of our time there.

But by the time Deacon joined us here in Virginia and finally started sleeping, life had started to fill. We had a house that is a home, we met neighbors, established routines, school schedules, church, and other commitments. And, blessedly, Daniel is home exponentially more than he was. So these pockets—times in the day before everyone is up or after they go to bed at night, or when Deacon is napping and the girls are at school—are fairly predictable and usually rather short. It is in these times I can make progress on writing or housework or exercise or rest or really do anything that requires my full attention that wouldn’t be possible while I’m also ensuring my daredevil toddler isn’t defying death in the next room. 

Now that I’m working on my first book, I find those pockets are woefully small. Here’s what I’m trying to do about it.

Make Bigger Pockets - I’ve been patting myself on the back all year for waking up most days at 5:30 to write. Over the last couple weeks, it has become apparent to me that this is not nearly early enough. 5:30 was small potatoes. If I want to get this book written before its birthday, I’m going to need to work my way to the other side of 5:00. It would be impossible to express how much this pains me.

Be More Intentional - I’ve also learned, though, that I have more time than I think I do. I waste time sitting around, embarrassingly, often scrolling through stuff I don’t care about on my phone. I’m not demonizing the sitting around, or the phone. But trying to fit this much productivity in the same amount of time I’ve always had has driven me to be more intentional about the choices I make. So when I’m faced with a pocket now, I try to make a conscious decision, as opposed to vegging out and letting the time get away from me.  People are more important than things, even dreams, so sometimes pockets are spent having coffee with a friend while our kids play or acquiring things my family needs or helping someone out. When this happens, I remind myself that I am focusing on the most important thing at that time.

Make a Plan- I am able to predict the time I’ll have each day. Our life is fairly ordered most days. So there’s no reason I need to wait until the clock starts ticking to decide what I’m going to do with the time. I have always rejected the idea of “balance;” I’ve always been resentful that I grew up truly believing I could do it all. I never really had to choose. I feel like so many people my age—women in particular—are feeling the ill effects of that lie. Maybe it’s true that you can have it all, but you definitely can’t have it all at the same time. Opportunity cost is a real thing. So I choose how to spend my time, and I make peace with all the things I can’t be doing at the same time. Each day I make a rough plan for how I will spend the time I’ve got. I try to stick to it, but if I don’t, I give myself grace.

Create More Pockets- It’s becoming painfully obvious to me that, using only the time I already have each day, this book will probably take a decade to complete. I am working with Daniel to determine how I can steal away from the family to create more time. I don’t know what it’s going to look like yet, other than it’s probably going to require sacrifice, either financial or in terms of family time. It would not be worth it were it not my dream. But dreams don’t get themselves done any more than the laundry that is always on my couch can fold itself.

How do you work with the pockets of time you have? What does it look like for you to be intentional about the way you spend them?

I've said it before: We're not afraid to spend time away from our children. We think it's important for our marriage, for ourselves, for our daughters, even. I've said it nonchalantly, like it's no big deal. But the night before we left for New Orleans, Mirabella sobbed. This was new. Turns out it's much harder to leave your children for a few days when they are anxious about it.

But, thanks to an exciting visit from Aunt Amy, who gave the girls an awesome few days, Wednesday we flew. We spent the day riding streetcars, wandering the Garden District, inappropriately taking photos of real people's homes, and being sat in the "Patio Room" of Commander's Palace for lunch. Make no mistake, this might as well be called the "Room for Under-dressed Misfits." Giacomo led us past the crystal chandeliers and seersucker suits and through the kitchen to get there. Whatever.

Later we strolled through the French Quarter, bought art in Jackson Square, and ate a late dinner at the gorgeous Cafe Amélie. Thursday, since Daniel would be in meetings all day and into the night, he surprised me with a half-day at the spa. A Mother's Day present, he said. I was thrilled.  But again, as in San Francisco, I was nervous. I made him map the route from our hotel to the spa with me. I asked about safe streets to walk. I worried about eating alone. I hated to feel that way.

It is so infrequent anymore that I am alone, out in the world. I forget what to do with my hands, how to carry myself. I sometimes forget I am a complete person, just me, capable of functioning independently. After coffee and a croissant at an outdoor cafe I navigated myself to, I started to remember. I made it to the spa right on time, trying to act cool, like I'd been there before. Then I realized the goofy smile on my face was giving me away.

"My husband surprised me," I said, to anyone who might listen. "I've never done this before." I probably didn't need to say that last part; I loved every minute of it. Four hours later I bounced down Royal toward the French Market for lunch. I opted for an outdoor café that had live music and even ordered "traditional" Cajun food. A waiter (who was not my own) started chatting me up about where I was from, what I'd been doing, and what I thought of New Orleans. And then I realized he didn't necessarily care about any of my answers. I was so unaccustomed to being "hit on" it didn't even occur to me this man in Crocs and an apron was doing it. I mentioned that I was just tagging along on my husband's work trip and-- what do you know-- he was gone.

For the next couple hours, I walked, buying little souvenirs and taking pictures along the river. I had a grand plan to sit beside the rooftop pool and read a book-- I couldn't wait. I walked back to the hotel, stopping for an iced coffee before heading up to my room.  When I went to pay I realized I never collected my credit card from lunch. So maybe my feelings of incompetence were not entirely off base. In my Tevas I walked the 1.5 miles round trip to retrieve the card and finally made it to the pool to read. I took a shower and took my time getting ready, waiting for Daniel to come get me. It was a glorious day.

We spent the evening with some of his colleagues on Bourbon Street, where I was again surprised by the lack of professionalism I've seen at "work functions" and that I was hit in the head with beads thrown from a balcony overhead. "Honey!" Daniel said, "Good job! Someone threw beads at you!" Bourbon Street was not my favorite.

Friday I slept.  Late into the morning while my darling husband did whatever he does on these trips. We walked the rainy streets together, had a fantastic dinner at Muriel's and took a pedicab to Frenchmen Street to listen to live music. By the time we ate our beignets Saturday morning, I was happy, tired, and ready to get home to our little girls.

We returned in time for the girls to bring me breakfast in bed (and eat most of it), and put on a private ballet recital in our living room.

The trip was two weeks ago now, and feels like a distant memory. Still I'm so grateful for time away and the reminders it brings: of the love and friendship I still have with my husband (of seven years and one day), of the spunky girl that is still under the mom somewhere, and that-- while the stillness and quiet and occasional ability to read a book are blissful-- those noisy, demanding, hysterical little girls make my life full.

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.