Posted on Thursday, July 7th, 2016
If you really loved your kids, you wouldn’t let someone else raise them.
That statement pretty much sums up the feelings of anyone who thinks a mom with young kids shouldn’t be working. For many years, I was one of the people who bought into that. I understood that for some women, staying home was simply not a choice; if the options are putting food on the table or staying home, you should always choose food on the table. I gave those women a “pass.” Their situation couldn’t be helped, but I but felt bad for them, because obviously, they must wish they could be the coveted SAHM.
I am a feminist. I think women should be able to do whatever they want to do. If they want to work, the workforce should embrace them, and we should make daycare affordable and available. If women don’t want to work, we should support that choice too. But deep in my heart, I felt like maybe the women who chose to work without needing to didn’t love their kids as much as the ones who stayed home.
When I had my daughter, all of my beliefs seemed to be confirmed. I loved my daughter so fiercely and with every ounce of my being, that leaving her for even an hour seemed impossible. When she was first born, going out without her was a luxury I’d only give myself when she napped. I was determined to be with her as much as possible and not miss a single milestone; I would be there for every first coo, crawl, step or word, and I would interact, engage and teach her every waking moment. Unfortunately, I fell into the category of “have to work to put food on the table,” and after 4 months of maternity leave, reluctantly returned to work on a modified, part-time schedule. I was crushed.
Even though my daughter was going to be watched by her grandmothers (they alternated care days), I hated that they were getting to watch her grow up while I had to go to work. I started looking for other jobs that would let me maintain my part-time schedule or work from home, since my current job would only let me work part-time for an additional 3 months. I sent out resumes and reached out to industry connections, all while vocally cursing my lot and wishing my husband made enough money for me to be home with my baby.
After about 6 weeks of working, something changed. I started to look forward to the days that I worked, and the 2 weekdays I was home alone with my daughter started to drag. I gleefully looked forward to nap time, because I couldn’t think of enough “engaging” activities that she enjoyed that didn’t make me want to stab myself in the eye. When I was home, it was hard to see what I’d done for all of those hours. Was going to the park, nursing, changing diapers and struggling to keep the living room clean really the best I could do all day? I struggled with my self-worth on the really bad days when my husband came home to a cranky wife, a disaster of a house, dirty laundry and zero plans for dinner. I was home all day, after all- why did I get nothing done?
Work became a respite. It was a place of adult conversation. I felt useful and productive. I could look back at the end of the day and be proud of what I’d accomplished. I knew my daughter was creating these great bonds with her grandmothers and began to think of that as a positive instead of a negative.
I somehow wasn’t missing milestones. I was the first person to see her crawl, and her first word was still “mama.” She was attached to my hip and when I was in the room, she wouldn’t let me out of her sight (or, more honestly, wouldn’t let me out of her baby death grip). She still knew I was her mom, and loved me more than anyone else. I realized I liked being back at work, and I was a better mom for it. On days that I worked, I came home more excited to play, and spend time with her. I wasn’t counting down the minutes until the next activity- I was present, and our time was much better quality even if the quantity was reduced. I knew at that point even if my husband could support us, I would never choose to stay home full time with my daughter or any future kids.
Cue the guilt. All of those years of thinking that only “bad” moms wanted to work started to nag at me. Did I not love my daughter as much as other moms? Was I a bad person? Should I have even become a parent? What did this say about me? These questions started to eat me up inside, and I kept my happiness of being at work quiet. I didn’t even tell my husband because I was afraid he would judge me and hate me for it.
I agonized quietly until one day, I was out at lunch with my mom and the baby and she told me she was jealous of me. I was confused. What could she be jealous of? She looked me in the eye and told me that it was very hard for her to be home all the time with me and my brothers back when she was a stay at home mom. She had missed working and feeling useful. She resented that my dad got to go out and interact with other adults. She sometimes felt like she was wasting her brain. She was jealous of the fact that I still got to work.
I didn’t know what to think. My mom had sacrificed a lot to stay home with me and my brothers. She and my dad made the conscious decision that despite the financial struggle they would face (we were barely scraping by when I was little), my mom would stay home until the youngest was in school. My mom was the model SAHM. She ran the PTA, and was class mother for all of us. She ran school events, and never missed a practice or game. She loved us more than anything. When I asked her about this, she explained that she needed those things to keep her feeling fulfilled. Being part of the PTA or running the school carnival gave her a sense of purpose with achievable goals.
I felt like a weight had been lifted off my chest and burst into tears. I spilled everything, and explained how I’d been feeling for the past few months. My mom hugged me and she told me it was OK. Loving your kids but not wanting to be around them 24/7 didn’t make me a mom who loved my little girl any less. Wanting to use my brain and fulfill a career I’d worked almost 10 years to build was a good thing. My daughter would remember that I was a mom who did her best, and not care that I was a mom who wasn’t around every waking minute.
I love my daughter. I love my job. Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive, and I know that now. After a long struggle, I can say proudly and with confidence, that being a working mom is right for me.
If you really loved your kids, you wouldn’t let someone else raise them.
That statement pretty much sums up the feelings of anyone who thinks a mom with young kids shouldn’t be working. For many years, I was one of the people who bought into that. I understood that for some women, staying home was simply not a choice; if the options are putting food on the table or staying home, you should always choose food on the table. I gave those women a “pass.” Their situation couldn’t be helped, but I but felt bad for them, because obviously, they must wish they could be the coveted SAHM.
I am a feminist. I think women should be able to do whatever they want to do. If they want to work, the workforce should embrace them, and we should make daycare affordable and available. If women don’t want to work, we should support that choice too. But deep in my heart, I felt like maybe the women who chose to work without needing to didn’t love their kids as much as the ones who stayed home.
When I had my daughter, all of my beliefs seemed to be confirmed. I loved my daughter so fiercely and with every ounce of my being, that leaving her for even an hour seemed impossible. When she was first born, going out without her was a luxury I’d only give myself when she napped. I was determined to be with her as much as possible and not miss a single milestone; I would be there for every first coo, crawl, step or word, and I would interact, engage and teach her every waking moment. Unfortunately, I fell into the category of “have to work to put food on the table,” and after 4 months of maternity leave, reluctantly returned to work on a modified, part-time schedule. I was crushed.
Even though my daughter was going to be watched by her grandmothers (they alternated care days), I hated that they were getting to watch her grow up while I had to go to work. I started looking for other jobs that would let me maintain my part-time schedule or work from home, since my current job would only let me work part-time for an additional 3 months. I sent out resumes and reached out to industry connections, all while vocally cursing my lot and wishing my husband made enough money for me to be home with my baby.
After about 6 weeks of working, something changed. I started to look forward to the days that I worked, and the 2 weekdays I was home alone with my daughter started to drag. I gleefully looked forward to nap time, because I couldn’t think of enough “engaging” activities that she enjoyed that didn’t make me want to stab myself in the eye. When I was home, it was hard to see what I’d done for all of those hours. Was going to the park, nursing, changing diapers and struggling to keep the living room clean really the best I could do all day? I struggled with my self-worth on the really bad days when my husband came home to a cranky wife, a disaster of a house, dirty laundry and zero plans for dinner. I was home all day, after all- why did I get nothing done?
Work became a respite. It was a place of adult conversation. I felt useful and productive. I could look back at the end of the day and be proud of what I’d accomplished. I knew my daughter was creating these great bonds with her grandmothers and began to think of that as a positive instead of a negative.
I somehow wasn’t missing milestones. I was the first person to see her crawl, and her first word was still “mama.” She was attached to my hip and when I was in the room, she wouldn’t let me out of her sight (or, more honestly, wouldn’t let me out of her baby death grip). She still knew I was her mom, and loved me more than anyone else. I realized I liked being back at work, and I was a better mom for it. On days that I worked, I came home more excited to play, and spend time with her. I wasn’t counting down the minutes until the next activity- I was present, and our time was much better quality even if the quantity was reduced. I knew at that point even if my husband could support us, I would never choose to stay home full time with my daughter or any future kids.
Cue the guilt. All of those years of thinking that only “bad” moms wanted to work started to nag at me. Did I not love my daughter as much as other moms? Was I a bad person? Should I have even become a parent? What did this say about me? These questions started to eat me up inside, and I kept my happiness of being at work quiet. I didn’t even tell my husband because I was afraid he would judge me and hate me for it.
I agonized quietly until one day, I was out at lunch with my mom and the baby and she told me she was jealous of me. I was confused. What could she be jealous of? She looked me in the eye and told me that it was very hard for her to be home all the time with me and my brothers back when she was a stay at home mom. She had missed working and feeling useful. She resented that my dad got to go out and interact with other adults. She sometimes felt like she was wasting her brain. She was jealous of the fact that I still got to work.
I didn’t know what to think. My mom had sacrificed a lot to stay home with me and my brothers. She and my dad made the conscious decision that despite the financial struggle they would face (we were barely scraping by when I was little), my mom would stay home until the youngest was in school. My mom was the model SAHM. She ran the PTA, and was class mother for all of us. She ran school events, and never missed a practice or game. She loved us more than anything. When I asked her about this, she explained that she needed those things to keep her feeling fulfilled. Being part of the PTA or running the school carnival gave her a sense of purpose with achievable goals.
I felt like a weight had been lifted off my chest and burst into tears. I spilled everything, and explained how I’d been feeling for the past few months. My mom hugged me and she told me it was OK. Loving your kids but not wanting to be around them 24/7 didn’t make me a mom who loved my little girl any less. Wanting to use my brain and fulfill a career I’d worked almost 10 years to build was a good thing. My daughter would remember that I was a mom who did her best, and not care that I was a mom who wasn’t around every waking minute.
I love my daughter. I love my job. Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive, and I know that now. After a long struggle, I can say proudly and with confidence, that being a working mom is right for me.
About the Author:
I'm a married, New Jersey mom who spends works her day job planning events, and spends 24 hours a day trying to figure out how to be the best mom I can be to a "spirited” daughter. I love football, ice cream, the beach, working out, binge watching Netflix, and judging people who don't vaccinate their kids.
