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. ​

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.

First, an apology: To anyone who read the last post and got scared that something big was wrong, I am sorry!  A beloved and frightened friend just accused me of being a drama queen for writing it, which is probably about right.  I just couldn't write the whole thing until it was in the past (if only the very recent past).  I will soon return to my more level-headed self.  Soon.

I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.  I always knew I wanted to be a wife and a mother, but I never really considered the parameters.  I just didn’t give it any thought and figured I’d know when the time came.

When the time did come, it became evident to me that a little foresight would have gone a long way.  But I was conflicted, and I wrestled with it loudly and often.  I worried over my identity. I lamented my lack of balance. I feared my life would never change.  Then I was concerned that if it did, I’d regret it.

I felt I was never fully anywhere.  I couldn’t honestly say I only worked because I had to because there have always been aspects I really enjoyed: I have always liked making money, contributing to a team, being an expert at something, interacting in a professional setting, and getting up and putting on big girl clothes and heels.  I still do.

But whereas I thought getting up and leaving my babies for 10 or more hours per day would get easier as they grew, it has not.  It has gotten progressively harder.  For the last couple years, we have been working toward the time when we might have options.  I wasn’t sure what I would choose, just that I wanted to have a choice.

A few months ago I started a consulting firm that I can grow at my own pace.  We have been looking forward to a series of dates that have scaled back my work and that, eventually, would end my day job.  It never seemed to come soon enough.

And then, Daniel got an offer-- a ridiculous and generous offer.  We planned to take it, until it seemed there may be another one.  It's not yet resolved, but we are moving.  We don’t know where, though it is most certainly somewhere south of here. We hope to have an answer in the next couple days.

Despite this uncertainty, I quit my job today.  I have been a nervous wreck, because it’s not like I just quit a job to start another one.  I quit my job to stay home with my children.  To devote more time to being the mother I want to be.

And before I say any more, please really hear what I’m saying: I don’t think there is one right answer for everyone.  I wholeheartedly don’t.  There is no judgment in this decision, no feeling that everyone should someday come to this place.  What there is: 100% certainty that this is the right decision for me and my family. 

Today I felt nervous about letting people down. In a month, when I actually leave, I will be sad to say good-bye to a team I’ve known for five years, to a company that has been wonderful to me.  I know there will come a day in the not-so-distant future when I long to get up and put on a cute dress and sit at a desk all day where all I’m expected to do is work and I can go to the bathroom (alone) whenever I please, and then they’ll pay me. I am undoubtedly going to miss the grownups.  But I made a huge step today, I have thoroughly counted the cost, and I have no regrets.

One morning last week as I prepared to leave for work, Mirabella said, “I don’t want to you to go to work.”

“I know,” I said.  “What if, pretty soon, I didn’t have to?  What if I could stay home?”

Mirabella cocked her head to the side, “For how many days?  Fifty-five?”

“Every day,” I replied.

“MORE than fifty-five days?  I think that would be GREAT.  When can we do that, Mom?”

It had never even occurred to her that it could be different than it’s always been.  And I found great comfort in that.  I have always consoled myself that my children know only me, that they do not compare me to other moms or wish things were different.  They simply need my best.  For the last four years, I can confidently say I have given that to them.  And now I am excited, nervous and hopeful as I look toward a very different-looking future.

But I'll say to you what I said to Daniel: In this brave new world, if you see me start to wear yoga pants every day, it's time for an intervention. I mean it.