Tell Me How You Really Feel: 4
We've lived here since August of 2003. Way back then, we had only two little toddlers running around (with hopes for more) and I had visions of working full-time in my head. But when we moved, things changed. I realized that I needed to get acclimated to our new surroundings, and I wanted to get the girls through the transition as well. Plus, I really didn't want to have the kids in day care full-time. So I poked around and found my current part-time teaching gig at the local community college. Each quarter or semester since then (not counting summers or the few brief breaks I've taken) you'll find me behind the podium spouting talk about the sodium-potassium pump, the appendicular skeleton, or how the hormones actually work.
As you know, within the last couple of years, however, I've realized that I want to make a change. From teaching to writing. So far, I've combined the two pretty successfully. (I won't say completely successfully until I've got a copy of one of these novels sitting on the library's shelf.) I have to be honest, though, that the few semesters where I've taken some time off to concentrate on writing have been some of the best months of my life. I'm more relaxed, I give more time to the kids and their needs, and quite possibly, Tim and I have more time together.
So why do I keep working? Because of guilt. For some reason, my unpaid contribution to this family (which really is worth far more than the paid contribution) doesn't seem like enough. I see braces, and vacations, and vet bills, and college and think to myself that any little bit I make, any little bit, is at least that: a little bit more to add to the bank account so Timmy doesn't need to shoulder the entire burden. That's what I keep telling myself.
But yesterday, I had a revelation. I could, in theory, justify my staying home. And it goes like this.
I get up early (as in 5:30 a.m. or earlier) to start on kids' lunches/laundry/blog writing. Not all of that time is spent for someone in the family, but by 6 a.m., I'm in mommy mode. Which means that between the hours of 6 and 8 a.m., when everyone is getting ready for school and I'm working my fingers to the bone to make sure everyone is on time, I've put in two hours of real work.
The same can be said for the hours after school, let's say, between 3 and 8 p.m. We've got homework and dinner and carting kids to late-day appointments and soccer. During those hours especially, I am mom--not teacher or writer (unless I'm teaching my children or writing with my children). Five hours of working as mom. Five.
So far then, we've got 2 hours +5 hours = 7 hours. Add into that the time during the day when the kids are away, when I fold clothes or clean or do something else family related, and I've moved myself into another hour. Which means that during the day, I work 8 hours for my family, and 40 hours a week at least for said family. And that doesn't even include the weekends.
What have I just done? I've told myself that if I want to stop working, I can. That's it's okay because in reality, I'm not sitting at home eating ice cream and catching up on soaps. (Are those still around?) I've asked Tim what he thinks, and Tim is fine with my not working outside the home. The kids are of course fine with it. I'm the only hold-out, and I'd need to be psychoanalyzed to truly figure out why I don't let go of the rat race. (It probably has to do with my need to be independent, and the fact that the idea of being able to support myself was drummed into me from an early age.) I'm not complaining here, because with the kids at school and my Tuesday/Thursday schedule of writing, I have found some balance. But if I'm honest with myself, I want something different. Just like everyone else.
What to do, what to do? Not sure yet. I'm signed up for another teaching schedule next semester, as far as I know. I'll be fine with it...I think. But I reserve the right, at any time, to fold and say to myself that it's okay to stay at home. Because it is. And that, dear friends, is How I Really Feel.
As you know, within the last couple of years, however, I've realized that I want to make a change. From teaching to writing. So far, I've combined the two pretty successfully. (I won't say completely successfully until I've got a copy of one of these novels sitting on the library's shelf.) I have to be honest, though, that the few semesters where I've taken some time off to concentrate on writing have been some of the best months of my life. I'm more relaxed, I give more time to the kids and their needs, and quite possibly, Tim and I have more time together.
So why do I keep working? Because of guilt. For some reason, my unpaid contribution to this family (which really is worth far more than the paid contribution) doesn't seem like enough. I see braces, and vacations, and vet bills, and college and think to myself that any little bit I make, any little bit, is at least that: a little bit more to add to the bank account so Timmy doesn't need to shoulder the entire burden. That's what I keep telling myself.
But yesterday, I had a revelation. I could, in theory, justify my staying home. And it goes like this.
I get up early (as in 5:30 a.m. or earlier) to start on kids' lunches/laundry/blog writing. Not all of that time is spent for someone in the family, but by 6 a.m., I'm in mommy mode. Which means that between the hours of 6 and 8 a.m., when everyone is getting ready for school and I'm working my fingers to the bone to make sure everyone is on time, I've put in two hours of real work.
The same can be said for the hours after school, let's say, between 3 and 8 p.m. We've got homework and dinner and carting kids to late-day appointments and soccer. During those hours especially, I am mom--not teacher or writer (unless I'm teaching my children or writing with my children). Five hours of working as mom. Five.
So far then, we've got 2 hours +5 hours = 7 hours. Add into that the time during the day when the kids are away, when I fold clothes or clean or do something else family related, and I've moved myself into another hour. Which means that during the day, I work 8 hours for my family, and 40 hours a week at least for said family. And that doesn't even include the weekends.
What have I just done? I've told myself that if I want to stop working, I can. That's it's okay because in reality, I'm not sitting at home eating ice cream and catching up on soaps. (Are those still around?) I've asked Tim what he thinks, and Tim is fine with my not working outside the home. The kids are of course fine with it. I'm the only hold-out, and I'd need to be psychoanalyzed to truly figure out why I don't let go of the rat race. (It probably has to do with my need to be independent, and the fact that the idea of being able to support myself was drummed into me from an early age.) I'm not complaining here, because with the kids at school and my Tuesday/Thursday schedule of writing, I have found some balance. But if I'm honest with myself, I want something different. Just like everyone else.
What to do, what to do? Not sure yet. I'm signed up for another teaching schedule next semester, as far as I know. I'll be fine with it...I think. But I reserve the right, at any time, to fold and say to myself that it's okay to stay at home. Because it is. And that, dear friends, is How I Really Feel.
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