Like many other women, raised in the ’80s inside a religiously conservative culture, I was raised to be a homemaker. By the time I was 6 years old I was changing diapers and caring for children smaller than I was. My skills were honed by the time I was 12. I could run a household, except for the driving and paying bills parts.
Cooking, baking, entertaining, caring for children, decorating, celebrating, and cleaning were parts of my everyday life. I was good at them. I actually enjoyed them. I even learned to enjoy cleaning and did it to help put my now-ex through grad school. California (where we were living) rich people’s houses supply a good cleaning income.
Central to my life has always been caretaking. It’s something that almost requires no effort for me. It is second nature. Watching people, their interactions, meeting their needs, and being available to them is not just easy, it’s what I was programmed to do.
…
Today, three of my four children left. They left for their in-laws or headed back to work, a plane ride away. I had them together for just a few days of total mom bliss.
Our Christmas was wonderful. They are becoming so thoughtful and sweet to each other. The way they play with each other, their cumulative laughter, and their goofy senses of humor are beautiful for me to witness. I loved every darn minute.
And just hours after they left, it hit me…I still have my whole life to figure out; a life that doesn’t include them. I still have the desperate feeling need to create a life that makes my interactions with them and availability to them possible.
Grad school still requires at least two more years, and in the meantime, I am scrounging to figure out what comes next. Then it dawns on me that I don’t even have the ability to be as independent as my 18-year old. And everything begins to shut down.
…
I had my first child at age 25. Before that I had helped my mom raise my 8 siblings, then moved to Austria and nannied 6 more children, and had been an available adopted aunt to many, many more children.
I had given up my dream of being an opera singer at age 20, after getting married. His dreams and goals were going to take my energy and time, and I would be following him around the world…supposedly.
No matter, I had no issues raising my own children. Yes, I was tired and grumpy at times. Yes, children are inconvenient. They are expensive and exhausting. They are a lot of things.
But, with them, the rewards were always worth the sacrifice.
Unlike so many other relationships in my life, my children have never NOT been worth it. I’ve been incredibly blessed.
I kinda knew what I was doing when I raised them…as I continue to guide them. I didn’t know everything, of course. But I wasn’t insecure about how to care for their needs. It was second nature.
But, as all stories go, giving all of that time and energy to them left me with very little. Without a supportive spouse, I didn’t have the opportunity to put time into my own life, let alone go to school or build a resume. My resume is less dense than my 23-year-old’s. It’s frightening.
I have no regrets about raising my children the way I did. The love, trust, and common perspectives we share are worth it all.
Where I go from here, how I gather my own soul, grasp and take hold of my independence and autonomy, and create a life for myself, I do not know.
I only trust it will happen somehow. Someday, I’ll meet someone who will say the right word, or support me in the right way. Someday, I’ll read something in a book that shifts everything. Someday, I’ll have let go of enough grief to have room for something more productive.
Until then, I look at the pictures of the last 5 days and notice the tears falling down my cheeks. It’s a wonderful, and difficult life, my friends.
I may not be the best partner, the best workout friend, the best house organizer, the best spreadsheet creator, or the best workerbee. I just don’t care about those things as much as I (maybe) should. But I think I’m a pretty good mom and I’m super proud of that.
The pay might suck, monetarily. But the love is sure good.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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 White Fragility: Talking to White People About Racism |
 Escape the “Act Like a Man” Box |
 The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men’s Lives is a Killer |
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Photo credit: Alexander Dummer on Unsplash
