Finding my Way

When I think back to where I was three-and-a-half years ago, working in university public relations, editing Web sites, photographing community events, supervising interns and teaching yoga in the evenings, it feels like another lifetime.

As I counted down the days to our first child’s birth and the beginning of my maternity leave (from which I knew I would not return), I could not even begin to imagine my life as it is now.
And yet as my growing belly pushed me further away from my keyboard and physical exhaustion made a walk across campus feel like an Olympic event, I spent (far too many) hours daydreaming about what was to come as I began my new life as a stay-at-home mother.

I visualized myself enjoying all of my favorite “at-home” hobbies – gardening, cooking, reading, writing, photography, sewing, knitting, spinning – and even looked forward to exploring some new hobbies like traveling (after all I was no longer going to be tied down to a work schedule).

I imagined myself constantly surrounded by helpful people who rocked my baby while I cooked and sewed.

And for a while it was like that (not so much the cooking and sewing, but lots of people around to help). And then one by one people went back to work; back to their lives and their commitments.

The last one to “abandon” me was my mom, a high school teacher who spent most of her summer vacation helping me and enjoying her new grand-daughter.

By mid-September, I was in a pretty good funk.

The only thing growing in my garden was weeds. My spinning wheel was covered in dust (and eventually banished to the basement where it still remains).

Knitting, reading, traveling…ha! I couldn’t even figure out how to shower regularly or keep up with the endless mountains of laundry, never mind cooking a decent meal or even finding the top of the table so we could have a “family dinner.”

As the long winter days came, the funk mushroomed into panic and waves of depression.

Why was my reality so different than what I thought it would be?

I pictured myself being a happy, go-with-the-flow, mom, baking cookies and singing songs with my child happily strapped to my back and instead found myself just trying to survive the days (and nights), “killing time” and waiting for my husband to come home.

It wasn’t all bad. There were definitely plenty of sweet, tender moments, but overall I felt a sense that something was lacking and I just couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

I started talking to other mothers and my own mother and grandmother.

I asked them about their experiences being home with young children and if they felt the feelings that I was feeling.

What I found was that most mothers of grown children have generally forgotten the challenges of the early years.

But usually after talking for a while, I would see little waves of recognition as they remembered what it was like to never be alone – not even in the bathroom!

One thing I consistently heard from my mom and other women her age is that there was a
much larger community of mothers around them when they were home with their children.

In my parents’ neighborhood alone, my mother had several best friends who were also home with their children. She talked about visiting with each other while they cooked and cleaned and trading childcare so that they all got a little “time off.”

The men in my parents’ group of friends also were consistently home from work by 5 p.m. – something that is not common among the young families that I know.

My grandmother’s generation had different challenges. The jobs that our appliances do for us (washing and drying clothes, diapers and dishes for example) were done by hand.

But in those days children were turned out to play like horses in a field, returning home only when the streetlights came on.

And many of the men of their generation worked over-time or multiple jobs to provide for their families, and were not expected to pitch in at home even if they were there. (Fortunately not the reality for most fathers I know.)

Finding my way
So what does all this mean for me, a mom in the early 21st century, trying to make my way?
What I have come to learn in the last several years, as our family grew to include our now 17-month-old son, is that I am incredibly blessed to live in a time where there are infinite options in creating the family experience we want to have.

For me that means, utilizing modern conveniences like take-out pizza, disposable diapers, and Bob the Builder videos, when I need to, and celebrating choices that I value like cloth diapers, home-cooked meals, and homemade gifts when it feels good to do so.

It’s about creating the community that I want to experience instead of complaining about its lack.

Utilizing babysitters, mother’s helpers, sharing meals with friends, being honest with myself about my expectations, my needs and my limitations and, most importantly, letting go of the idea that I can and should be able to do it all.

As I finish writing this, my three year old is enjoying a morning at preschool and my 17- month-old is at a wonderful home daycare where he is being loved and nurtured.

And – at least in this moment – I have found the joy and the balance and the peace I have been searching for since my parenting journey began.