I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for over seven years. It was a decision we made after having our second and facing the fact that daycare for two was nearly my entire paycheck. We budgeted, financed, and couponed long before I left my job and have continued to do so as the years tick by. In addition, my husband works long hours and is frequently on-call for his job. If anyone was going to be the primary parent, it was going to be me.
Excluding babysitting, I had my first real job when I was fourteen. By the summer I turned fifteen, I had two. Other than a few months at the start of college, I had always had a job. Therefore, transitioning from working full time to staying home full time was tough. It took me a good year to adjust.
Recently, one evening over dinner, a fellow mom asked if I planned to return to the workforce anytime soon. Knowing this friend is keeping an eye on the job market for me, I replied honestly.
No.
This August, my youngest with be in Kindergarten, my oldest in fifth grade, and my middle child, well, in the middle. It is the one and only year all three of my children will be in the same school building. I will have one drop off and one pick up. I will have approximately seven consecutive hours to myself.
Bliss.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my children. I even like them most of the time. But I also do a lot for them. In past years, I would spend over an hour and a half every day just running kids to and from school. Add in an extracurricular sport per child and my day was interrupted nearly every two hours playing chauffeur. At times it makes me a little nutty. I feel constantly on the clock, rushing through the to-do list before leaving again. I can’t sit and do a single task from start to finish and end up with many unfinished projects lying around. It’s almost like I have a newborn again, minus the lack of sleep and dirty diapers. Okay, not really. Not even close.
“You’ll get bored,” the other mom said.
I shook my head. Boredom is not something I fear. Boredom would be a privilege. I have books I want to write, projects I want to tackle, and bedrooms I want to paint. I have closets that need organized and toys that need downsized. I have walks I want to take and a few extra pounds I want to lose. Knock on wood, but I don’t think I’ll be bored. Still, I chewed on her words for a couple of days and determined what I did fear.
Loneliness.
For ten years, I have consistently had a little sidekick. For the last seven, I haven’t used a bathroom in peace. The few hours I had while my youngest was in preschool, I crammed in as much writing, emailing, phone-calling, and non-kid friendly appointments as possible. I devoured the time like chocolate cake; savoring each bite while quickly reaching for the next, only to realize it was gone before I was satisfied. But like cake, you can only have so much, and when preschool ended for the day, I was ready to explore the unknown with my witty little astronaut.
Justification.
But how can I stay home…when there’s no one left at home? Let’s be straight, people can be judgmental. What does she really do all day? Binge on Netflix and eat bon bons? All you moms out there know a woman’s work is never done. The mental workload is heavy, and the physical tasks are as infinite as laundry and dishes; never-ending. I feel the need to justify to others that I want to continue to stay home, at least for now. I won’t be watching Netflix; we don’t have a subscription. I’m certain my house will still be in shambles any given day of the week. (See my post, Impressions Aside, Let’s Be Real.) My hope is in the quiet moments of an empty house, I can do all the things I’ve wanted to do and have put off for years. I want to write that book. I want to tackle that closet. I want to purge the rat race, end the ever-constant frantic rush, and rid our house of the self-induced negativity. I want to slow down a little. If I have the chance to do that, why wouldn’t I take it?
One year.
That’s how long I’m giving myself. The last major transition took that long, why wouldn’t this one? I’ll miss my little one when she starts school. I’ll miss her tender voice, asking to play or stating her opinion on the matter. I’ll miss her daily wit and blasting into outer space when leaving the grocery store. I’ll be able to carve out individual time for the older two, who feel jaded by the ever-present younger sibling. I’m sure I’ll attend school lunches more frequently, volunteer when the opportunity arises, and ward off loneliness with coffee dates. I’ll finally get that little bit of peace and quiet I have craved the last decade. Maybe I’ll hate it. Maybe I’ll love it. Or just maybe I’ll find a happy balance.
