Recently I was standing among a group of parents awaiting the dismissal of my youngest son from his nursery school when two women turned to me and one of them asked, ”What kind of work do you do?” I replied, ”I`m raising two small boys.” The first woman said, ”Oh, I thought you had a real job.” And the second one said, ”You don`t really work.”
I was stunned by those thorny remarks.
Real work to those women is putting on a dress, high heels and full makeup to go downtown and sip coffee in a temperature-controlled environment where they shuffle papers and push pens while keeping their callers on hold.
(Take that, you cats!)
Those two said my work isn`t ”real.” I say it is, and hard at that. A day in my life would kill one of those red-nailed, salon-coiffed dragon ladies. And it doesn`t begin with nylons and mascara.
I rise at dawn, pull on a pair of jeans, grab a sweatshirt, socks and sneakers and start my race with time. And I do mean race! I shout at the top of my lungs to get my kids out of bed while rushing to the kitchen to make breakfast. Next, I fill two lunch boxes (three on days I work as a substitute teacher at my younger son`s half-day nursery school) and shout again to get those kids out of bed.
Then I ”style” my hair by brushing it up and pinning it down with one stroke. I hustle the kids into the bathroom, scramble to get them dressed. I brush their hair and fill their backpacks; then we search for gym shoes. They eat breakfest while I gather boots, hats, gloves and snowsuits (winter is the pits). When we`re finally out of the house, I chauffeur the kids to school, and it`s only 8:30 a.m.
Between then and 1 p.m. I do housework and grocery shopping. At 1:30 p.m. my youngest son is released from his nursery school, and I won`t tell you what happens between that time and 3:30 p.m. because you`d never believe it. Well, OK, I will tell you: A few of his friends pile into the car and come home to see how much fun they can have, at the noise level natural to boys their age. It isn`t glamorous. And if my hair was pinned up at the start of the day, you can bet it`s dragging down around my shoulders at 3:30 when my older son comes home. And the sweatshirt I`m wearing is doing the job it was designed to do.
The remainder of my day is spent shuttling my kids back and forth to after-school classes, serving snacks, driving the boys` playmates home and preparing dinner. Following after-dinner kitchen duty, I always settle down with a few good books. I read all of the greats, such as Dr. Seuss and The Berenstain Bears.
When my husband`s job sends him out of town, an evening of music and excitement for me most often includes ”skee ball” at Showbiz Pizza. Dining and dancing are replaced with bumper bowling and ice skating. I don`t know the names of all the ”soaps,” but I do know the names of all the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
Sometimes I wish my work were of the salaried kind because my kind of work doesn`t end. I can`t punch out at 5 p.m. Often I find myself pacing the floor at 3 a.m., tending someone`s sickness or calming nightmares.
Often, though, I`m happy with the job I have. I may be overworked, but I`m definitely not underpaid. I get my rewards whenever tiny fingers clasp my neck. I don`t mind my job so much when I hear ”I love you, Mom” dance across my little ones` lips. A wilted dandelion placed in my hand is worth more than a fat paycheck. And when one feathery soft hand slips into mine, I know all my labors are appreciated.
I easily could have turned the tables on those two women who accused me of not having a ”real” job by accusing them of not being ”real” moms.
I might have said ”real” moms don`t go away to work while their children are at home because they know their children develop best when mother is the caregiver. But I didn`t.
I believe most of us moms strive to be the best parents we can be whether we are employed outside our homes or not. And I am nauseated by those two dragons and all others like them who think women who have opted to stay at home and raise their children themselves don`t ”really” work.
