that mom

19Jun09

I spend a lot of time (in my head, at least) fretting over the fact that I’m a Working Mom. A Work Outside the Home Mom (WOHM), at that: the position long-known to be least-preferred, to be least-ideal for my child. It’s a position that takes me away just as she is waking up and beginning her day, and one that brings me home in the evenings as she’s winding down, finishing dinner, transitioning into the bedtime routine. It’s a position that means I’m fulfilled more often than not, doing what I love – and yet feeling guilty for enjoying that time, for not knowing really whether I could stay at home if we had the means.

It’s a position that can leave both the refrigerator and myself running on empty; it’s a position that means that sometimes we’re out of towels. It’s a position that leaves me teary at my desk some days, following phone calls where I hear her voice seeking me: “Mumma? Mumma?”

It’s not the way I was raised. My mom stayed at home with us. She was there in the mornings as I got ready for school; in the afternoons while we were outside playing she was there, either outside with us or inside, nearby. She drove us all back and forth to school, to our varied lessons and practices and camps.

She was never more than a phone call and five minutes away – I knew with utter certainty that if I needed her, really needed her, she would be there. I could talk to her, always – she knew what to say and how to comfort me. I was sort of an intense little kid, I think; I’ve always been one to fret. I went through a stage (maybe fourth grade? Fifth?) where I’d watched too much Rescue: 911! and had become certain that every time someone left the house they’d be met with inevitable death.

I remember her sitting me down on her large, high bed and giving me a silver necklace with six tiny hearts: two large in the center, and two sets of two smaller hearts on either side. “This is me and Daddy,” she said, gesturing to the larger hearts. “And these are you and your sisters. We’re always together, no matter where anyone goes. You can wear this to remember that.” I wore it daily, until the chain eventually broke a year or so later.

It still rests in my jewelry box; sometimes when I’m having a hard time with Maddie I’ll take it out and look at it, remembering. Thinking how careful, how thoughtful my mom was with me; thinking of the responsibility I have to Madeline to be the same. It still comforts me, so many years later.

She volunteered at my elementary and middle schools, meaning that she was generally on the periphery of my time in class, my field trips. More often than not, I would see her in the hallways and on the playground. I loved it. I loved the comfort of having my mom there – the reassurance of a hug just steps away. The other kids loved her too – I vividly remember one little boy asking her to marry him. She was that mom, the unfailing mom. The one who was always there for her kids, and frequently there for the others who weren’t blessed with that mom.

I spend a lot of time fretting that I’ll never be that mom. That my daughter will someday be hugging someone else’s mom, someone else’s mom who she will see more frequently than me. I fret that she’ll become more attached to her daily caregivers than she is to me. If you are a mother, I don’t have to elaborate further on how that feels; if you’re not, I don’t think I have adequate words.

The other day AndreAnna wrote a list of what she wants to be when she grows up. There are many things on my list: published author, accomplished cook, baker of many treats, wife to a happy husband. But at the top of that list?

That mom. That’s who I want to be.

Filed under: family, me, parenting, working mom   |  10 Comments
Tags: guilt, motherhood, working mom