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| Pretty sure I'd look just like this if I played this game. Maybe slighter fatter. Just slightly. |
I'm not exactly sure what my game is, but it's the life equivalent of a sport that's awesome and quite possibly up-and-coming, like lacrosse, and I rock at it. On those good days, I'm, like, the quarterback of the lacrosse team (I don't know a lot about sports) and I'm scoring touchdowns or whatever with that net-pole-thingy, and everyone is cheering and my jock strap fits just right.
On those days, I'm centred, focused and mostly calm in the brain. On those days, I love my life and I'm comfortable in my own skin. I laugh a lot, sing in my car, am excited to meet people and say funny and/or occasionally insightful things. On those days, I spread joy like an STD at a Las Vegas bachelor party.
And then, there are days like today. The days when my joy wears a condom, which I'm realizing now is a really bad analogy because wearing condoms is a good thing.
Except when they're joy condoms.
I've been having a day filled with latex blockades, turning away my happy swimmers at the border. I probably could have just said "I'm having a bad day," and skipped all that hullabaloo, but that's not how my mind works. And, if we could be honest with ourselves for a minute, isn't that why you come to my brain zoo and tour the weird animal exhibits?
I suppose, if I had to sum it up like normal people do, I would put it like this:
Today, and for a few days now, I've been feeling guilty about not having a "real" job.
Now that we've moved, we're able to get by on one income again. I should be overjoyed, because it means the very best of things: I get to stay home and write. How great is that? That's like an explosion of joy bursting through a pinpricked prophylactic.
But it's not like I've been doing a whole lot to advance my career as of late. I've been giving myself an adjustment period that involves unpacking, meeting people and finding my footing (I have high arches, so this can be tricky. It's a wonder I let me on my lacrosse team.)
But this adjustment period, as busy as it is, feels very much like doing, well, nothing.
I love staying home. I look forward to planning my days as I please; taking on as much or as little work as I feel up to; keeping the place as clean as it can be with three boys, two dogs and an inbred hamster who poops in her food bowl. On good brain days ungoverned by old toxic messages and/or hormonal fluctuations, I feel like the luckiest girl in the world. Life is fleeting and you simply can't put a price on time.
On the bad days, however, various message appear like spammy pop-ups on a porn site (so I hear):
Maven. You should be working! Contributing! Doing great things!
It's so selfish of you to stay home, Maven.
Every time your child complains that "everyone in my class goes on vacation each year but we don't" it's your fault, Maven.
You should go out and get a 9-5 because this isn't 1950 and that's what women do these days, Maven.
And stop kidding yourself: You're never going to make it as a writer. Do you know how many writers there are? They're everywhere, and most of them are still waiting for that big break. What makes YOU so special?
And on these bad days I listen to those messages and feel inadequate and insecure. I feel like I can't do anything right. I feel like maybe I'm wasting my life prepping meals at 3 p.m. and trying to be a writer.
(And then, like a true writer, I blog about it.)
The thing is, I like being home. If I didn't like it, I'd go to work. If we couldn't sustain our lifestyle on one income, I'd go to work (as I have in the past). But I like having a flexible schedule that allows for sick kids, off-peak grocery shopping, coffee with friends, and volunteering at the school. I like the quiet that comes with an empty house. (Three boys, remember?)
And I love writing. There's nothing I'd rather do in the world. There's little else that fuels me, emotionally sustains me, brings out that inner goddess who would lay dormant if she lacked an outlet. It's the one and only thing I would choose as a career.
So why do I feel so conflicted at times? Guilt. Societal norms. Lack of chocolate.
I think I'll go with lack of chocolate.
This is the year 2013. Feminism has taken us far. Women can now get a good education. We can achieve great things in the workplace. We have female astronauts, neurosurgeons and CEOs. Some of our sisters seem to balance a full-time career while simultaneously dicing carrots, doing pilates, closing a deal and changing a diaper. I can hardly make soup and blog at the same time, so I have endless respect and admiration for this delicate balancing act.
But I seem to beat the crap out of myself with feminism at times. Somehow, because I'm not a neurosurgeon or an astronaut or earn a salaried income of any kind, I'm less than. I'm less than because I chose to stay home with my kids instead of gaining seniority in the workplace. I'm less than because I'm choosing a form of artistic expression as a career instead of getting a "real job."
I'm less than you, and you are more than me.
The worst part about all of this is that I'm creating a problem where there is none. Why do people work? Usually because either they need the money or they love the job - or both. It can be fulfilling to have money in the bank and it can also be fulfilling to be recognized for our efforts. But work should never be what defines us. We are so much more than what we put on a resume.
After a couple of great chats with wise women today, I've concluded I need to get over myself and get back to doing what I do best: Thinking I'm awesome.
And hugging my kids. And planting flowers. And writing something insightful, if I can ever come up with something insightful to write about.
I'm more than my piddly resume and I'm more than my writing and I'm more than my kids. I'm more than the choices I've made and the choices I will make. Life is about balancing responsibility with happiness. And you know what? I think I'm doing a bang up job of that.
Lesson learned.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go poke some holes in some condoms.