While it’s fairly obvious to me that I need to work to survive emotionally, intellectually, and economically, I have learned to live with a deep-seated ambivalence about the whole Career Mommy endeavor (less like "ambivalence", more like being ripped apart by two wild boars running in opposite directions). A low, dull ache of longing, freedom, and confusion all mixed together in a watered down and expensive cocktail.
While I was home for three months this Summer, I nearly went to a home; and not the pretty kind with the nice people in bathrobes calmly taking pills. More like the one with the screaming people chained to walls being fed dry biscuits and rocks.
And while I’m not "I am Woman. I am Mother," I’m also definitely not "These kids ruined my figure, damn them!"… I’m lost in the hinterlands somewhere between Cranksville, Scary Mommy World, and Self-Sacrifice Suburbs.
But on days like today, when the rain and dark is mixed with the memory of smelling the spun gold of Violet’s hair as I sang her a bedtime lullaby, I have no mixed feelings whatsoever. I want to stay home, cuddle up in a big bed full of daughters, and see what wonders befall us. I want to make pumpkin pie, talk about giggly monsters, and be a short-order peanut butter chef.
The best parts of motherhood are the immensely private times that occur between me and my daughters. I never get misty and devoted all over again on play dates, at grandma’s house, or Gymboree. It is always at home on days like this, when we stay in our jammies and do whatever we like, with neither a schedule nor a spreadsheet to stop us.