Masquerade

I’ve been pretending lately. Pretending to be a Stay At Home Mom (SAHM). And I like it.

Last week, I didn’t have to go to work on Monday because we were closed for Columbus Day (I know, hate me if you want.) I had to go out of town overnight on Tuesday and Wednesday, so by Friday I only needed to work a half-day and was able to go home at lunch. Yesterday my parents needed the afternoon off, so I took a half-day of vacation time and again left work at lunch.

Oh my, how I have enjoyed spending all that time with my daughter! It almost feels illicit. I’m totally getting away with something here. I keep looking over my shoulder for the spoiler who is going to come and squash my fun. “Don’t you know, Young Lady, that you are a WORKING MOTHER, not a SAHM. You do not get the privilege of playing in the park in the middle of a Thursday afternoon! You gave up that pleasure for the sake of a paycheck. Get thee back to work!” Or something like that.

I ran into some SAHMs at the park yesterday. I felt like a total imposter. Giuliana happily shared the slide and swings with the few children around at 2pm in the afternoon. And I was absorbed into a conversation about seasonal and H1N1 flu shots and local pediatricians. The other moms were very friendly and open and shared all sorts of concerns about thimerisol and autism fears related to the vaccinations. I share these concerns. I still haven’t made up my mind about which shots, if any, Giuliana will get this season. I voiced my opinions and issues into the conversation. I have a slightly different perspective from these moms because I work with several children with autism. Some of their parents are convinced that vaccinations played a role in the development of the syndrome. And because of my work with medically and developmentally compromised kids, I know a lot about most of the local pediatricians, who’s good, who doesn’t really care about disabled kids and their quality of life, things like that. But I didn’t voice this side of my perspective. I didn’t want to call myself out and mention that I am a working mom who just had the afternoon off. I somehow felt a little guilty about it.

The conversation wrapped up, the kids were winding down and the other moms bundled them up to go home for their afternoon naps. We exchanged names and shared hopes that we run into each other again at the park. But I probably won’t run into them. I can’t take my daughter to the park in the middle of the day very often.

I drove home and wrestled with the issue of getting my daughter down for a nap. Of course she fell asleep in the car the minute we pulled into the driveway. She was exhausted, but woke up as I was gently trying to pry her loose from the car seat. And for this girl, there is no going back. She was up for good. I gave her some milk, rocked her, put on soft lullabies, placed her in her crib for some “quiet time,” but there was no sleeping to be had. As I rocked her, conflict roiled inside my head. “If I was able to really mother her, spend more of my time with her, I’d have this nap issue resolved. My mom doesn’t have trouble getting her to sleep. I’d be able to do that if I was with her more. Like those park moms.”

After I put her down for her “quiet time” I went downstairs and began making the time-consuming risotto I had planned for dinner. I thought I was going to make it Wednesday night. But Wednesday turned into a rush after work. We played outside, and decided since it was so beautiful to take a family walk with the dog. We didn’t get back home until 6pm. No time to make fancy, work-intensive risotto. We ordered take-out. Giuliana had a pb&j and yogurt. So, Thursday, I had a little more time to spend on dinner. And again, as I was stirring the bubbling risotto, the quiet resentment crept in. “If I didn’t have to work I’d be able to feed my family home cooked meals more often. We wouldn’t have to rely on take-out.”

I thoroughly enjoyed my afternoon with my girl, and I hate it when these dark thoughts and doubts creep in. I do the best I can for her. She’s healthy. She’s quite happy. She’s loved and cared for. She’s intelligent and learning new things everyday. But when she cries for me in the night and I know it’s only because she needs a few more cuddles, it breaks my heart. It makes me fear that she’s missing me during her days and the little time we spend in the evenings, even though I try like crazy to not let myself get wrapped up in dinner-prep and chores and to spend “quality time” on the floor playing with her, coloring and drawing endless circles, running around the yard, snuggling on the couch and watching Dora together, that that time isn’t enough.

The rub in all of it, the slap in the face, is that the “choice” for me to work is one of necessity. I’m not one of those mothers who feel like they’d go insane if they stayed home with their kids, who craves being able to go to the office and have some relevant adult interaction and then return home to be a better, more focused parent. I have nothing against these parents and wish I was one of them. Then maybe I wouldn’t feel so guilty about all the time I am missing from my daughter’s life. If I felt like working made me a better parent. But I don’t feel that way. I feel working makes me a more unbalanced parent. There are so many things I would do with her if I had more time. I can only cram so many things into a weekend. And some weekends, we feel like we all need to just stay home and relax and enjoy each other.

Sigh. I could go on and on. I’ll stop here because I’m making myself upset. I know it’s useless to dwell on “if only.” I have to work and that’s the way it is and the way it’s going to be. And I just have to suck up the rest of it and be the best mom I can be on nights and weekends. And the guilt and the self-incrimination doesn’t help me do that. It just makes me depressed.

But I think I know what I’m going to pretend to be for Halloween. Anyone have any tips for a good SAHM costume?