My Valentine To All The Parents Out There

        Valentine’s Day is almost upon us. For many American parents, that means that we now need to think about what to do for the parties at our children’s schools, daycares, etc. It also means that we are about to enter a snark-filled parenting, but mostly mommy, skirmish. On the one side, you’ll see the people who create cute, lovely, homemade valentines, some with the help of their children, others without. Many come with small gifts or treats attached. They are pretty awesome. At the other end of the spectrum, you will find the parent who grabs a pack of cards at the store while buying groceries or shampoo. I have been both of those parents for different Valentine’s Day parties. Let me let you in a little secret: Neither one is superior to the other.

          We worry so much about whether we are doing the right things, or even if we’re on the right track, are we doing enough? It is easy to let insecurity take hold, and I see it in copious amounts this time of the year. The crafty parents make or assist with fabulously adorable creations for their children to give to their classmates. They probably even made something extra-special for the teacher, classroom assistant and maybe even other staff members. They post their creations on social media and receive kudos in various forms. Then, there is the inevitable backlash.

          The parents who do not enjoy that sort of thing become defensive. Must be nice to have that sort of time they grumble (because prioritizing time differently is a sin worthy of Dante’s Hell in this world). They then start talking about how their kids will NEVER have something like cutesy, homemade valentines because they love their kids too much to waste time on something so frivolous that nobody, besides the other parents, even notices.  They often make their point while pretending to be self-deprecating and humorous. It’s okay to be rude if you’re funny, dammit!

          The crafters become defensive in return and volley snark about how it isn’t that hard to take the time to make something, including and especially, memories w/ your children, but the boxed-card buyers are too busy to make that special time for their children. Isn’t it worth a slightly, or very, late bedtime to do something for the children? While some of them do this in a similar self-deprecating manner to the non-crafter, many are dripping so heavily with sincerity that they could bottle it and sell it as the newest fragrance.

          Here’s the thing: We all have our strengths and weaknesses as parents. I made cute, crafty valentines, complete w/ treats with my oldest. Then, my middle son started school, and I also had an infant. That Valentine’s Day, as I wrangled dutiful craftiness, a cluster-feeding three-month-old, a nearly five-year-old, and a two-and-a-half-year-old, I realized that this had stopped being a positive and fun experience for me and my children. Why? It was because it now felt like something I had to do, and the boys really didn’t care as long as they had something to take to school.

This year, with all three children in school, we will have to provide nearly ninety valentines. I picked some up yesterday at Aldi while I was grocery shopping for the week. Last year, the boys wanted to cut out construction paper hearts, use doilies, stamps, stickers, etc. so we did, and it was fun. This year, they are super-excited about their boxed cards. The only thing that matters is that they are happy with what they are taking to school. If one or all of them had requested a craft, and they sometimes do, we would have made time for that. Since none of them did, this week is insane so if crafting were going to happen it needed to start a while ago, and, oh yeah, that number ninety keeps popping up, we skipped lovely and hand-made, and went for convenient and cheap.

          I was not a better mother for creating super-cute valentines with dried fruit, crackers, or popcorn. I am not somehow ironically superior for grabbing cheap cards at Aldi this year. I don’t have more or less time now than I did then. I am just their mom doing what needs to be done in the manner that works best for my family at that point in time, and you know what? They love me for it. They love me because I do my best for that day for them every day. Some days that means crafts, other days it may mean a fabulous meal, sometimes we have baking days, others we dance or run or go to the park, sometimes I throw chicken nuggets and French fries in the oven while letting them watch an extra program, and most days are a combination of things. Regardless, every night they tell me they love me and want hugs and kisses. Every day they pay me lovely compliments because they know that no matter what we are doing, it is being done with love. Things aren’t ever perfect, but we always have love.

          My valentine to all the other parents out there is this: You are awesome no matter what your kids are taking to school on Friday because you are providing what works for your family, and they love you for it. I promise. Happy Valentine’s Day.

To My Paternal Grandma

I had a dream about you last night. You were home. You had made it out of hospice, and you looked great. You were genuinely happy and at peace. You were wearing a wig. For some reason, you had lost your hair in hospice. You were confident it would grow back w/ no grey as it had after your chemo all those years ago. As a matter of fact, you looked much as you had thirty years ago, but as slim as you are now. We talked and laughed. It was like nearly every other visit I have had with you my whole life. I know my subconscious is conflating your cancer and your current condition because you weren’t supposed to survive your cancer, and you are now in hospice, so your odds of long term survival are pretty low. I know what my heart wants, but, after seeing you in hospice, I know what you need. You enjoyed many moments on our Thanksgiving visit, but you were also sad. You have lost so many people you love in the last few years, and have had more than your share of health crises. The blow of losing your baby brother in August seemed to have really taken the stuffing out of you, though. He was a good man.

You have always been one of the strongest people in my life. You lost your own mother too young, and had to deal w/ a succession of stepmothers, some okay and some who seemed to take their cues on stepmothering from the brothers Grimm. You moved to MI to live w/ family in your late teens. You met Papa while you were on a double date w/ other people. He accidentally slammed your hand in the car door, and you were married a short while later on your birthday. I am certain your marriage has had its ups and downs as any marriage will, but you have been married for over 66 years, and I can see how much you still love each other in everything you do for each other. You had three wonderful sons together. You helped your own siblings. You more than survived cancer; you beat it into submission and told it where it could go. You were never afraid of new technology. You were the first person I knew who had a microwave. You had a VHS player very early, and your camcorder never left your shoulder for a while. You were online when other people your age shuddered at the thought of a computer. You have always been ready to tackle anything. You have always been active and helping others. Despite your schedule, you always, always made time for anyone who needed you. I used to think that your church wouldn’t get by w/out you (you ran the Sunday school, were active in the bell choir, and the chimes, and the ladies’ committee, etc. etc.) and the solid spiritual foundation you and Papa provided for us helped me to find my own calling as an adult. You are a thoroughly amazing woman.

As the oldest grandchild, I have had the great privilege of having you in my life longer than any of the others. You were still working as a real estate agent when I was young. I loved going to houses w/ you, and going into your office at your house was always fun. I still have a couple of your business pens.

You used to zip around in your burgundy Grand Prix with your CB on, which is how you received your Grandma name. Again, as the oldest grandchild, I was the one who christened you Grandma PJ, despite that having absolutely nothing to do with your given name. The truckers on the CB called you Puddle Jumper, or PJ, for short. I picked up on that, and the rest is history. All of your grandchildren know you as Grandma PJ.

My sister and I were the first two grandchildren on both sides of the family, but we were the only two on your side for several years. A weekend just wasn’t a weekend without an overnight w/ you and Papa. You cooked with and for us, baked with us, let us run around in your huge yard w/ all the wonderful space and the things Papa had made for us to play in and on, we did crafts, colored, read stories, watched programs (Murder She Wrote for you and Golden Girls for Papa loom large in my memory), and were just little girls at your house. We used to sit on the corner of your counter top and “supervise” while you worked. We learned how to supervise from Papa.  Eventually, I moved up from supervising to sometimes cooking for you and Papa. I made turkey lasagna and garlic bread for you that first time I took over your kitchen.

As happy as I was for you when you remodeled your kitchen I was a little sad to see the supervising corner go. We were far too old to sit there, but it was our corner.  Of course, the only kitchen my children and the youngest grandchildren have known is your current kitchen, which also holds many special memories. My husband, sister, and I have all made full Thanksgiving dinners in there together while you hovered anxiously around and drove us all crazy. Then, everything would turn out perfectly, and we’d have a great meal w/ everyone, all of your sons, their wives, their children, and their children’s children. It was our holiday celebration on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. I also have photos of you teaching my oldest to make monkey bread. Sadly, I do not have any pictures of you making cookies w/ my children and my youngest cousins this past Thanksgiving. Had I known it would likely be your last, I would have loaded up on the pictures. I will always have the memory, though.

Sunday dinners at your house were always a highlight of the week. There would almost always be some sort of dessert, and often, my youngest uncle and his best friend would be there. You used to laugh when I would tell you we couldn’t eat b/c Jim (the best friend) wasn’t there yet. My favorite dessert was Yum. I think it might actually have been your own version of pistachio pudding, but I loved that stuff. I never wanted the recipe, though. It just seemed like something that only you could make. I’m not sure if I regret never learning the secrets of Yum or not. I remember your battle of wills w/ my sister over onions. You would chop them so finely and she would work to pick out every little sliver. You eventually conceded and started just chopping them so she could pick them out easily. I am pretty sure I can count on one hand the number of times that you weren’t the more stubborn one, though.

The major source of discord between my sister and me when we would visit was a spoon w/ stars on the handle. We both always wanted it, and felt that the other one always got it. We argued over that silly spoon so many times. I remember you tossing it down the stairs and telling us no one could have it. We still try to beat each other to it when we are both visiting. My sister wasn’t able to make it this Thanksgiving, and I took pictures of the spoon to send to her.

As we got older, our brother arrived, and then two cousins. Of course, our cousins lived out-of-state, so we didn’t see them all the time, but it was always great when everyone was around, and you and Papa loved it. I also fell ill around that time. Of all the people outside of our household, you and Papa were the two best about just letting my life go on. You were a source of quiet and peace when I needed it. You taught me to crochet, which gave me something to do when I ran out of books and became tired of television in the hospital. It is also a lifelong skill, and I crocheted all of my children’s homecoming outfits; the last was finished up in the hospital. When my sister started going on vacation w/ family friends, who were afraid to take me, you and Papa loaded me up in the Blazer and took me on a trip to WI. I still remember the sandwiches we ate at the rest stop on the way there. The most important thing you did was really listen to me when I talked. We would stay up late chatting about all kinds of things while we crocheted. You let me pour out my heart. That didn’t change as I got older. You, as much as anyone, saw me through my parents’ divorce. You and Papa paid to have a 1-800 number when I went away to college so I could call whenever I needed to do so. My youngest uncle also used it as he was away at school as well.

There are so many wonderful memories. I always looked forward to my new crocheted slippers in my Christmas stocking at your house. Your slippers are a bit famous, you know. The day before you went into the hospital this last time one of my best friends from high school told me that she wore the slippers you made for her until they fell apart. You were good to my friends. You and Papa hosted my thirteenth birthday party. It was a great time, and I hope you stopped being upset about the over-cooked spaghetti noodles at some point. We all loved the party. It felt so grown-up to be in the finished part of the basement, talking, laughing, and having a dance party. We couldn’t have done it at my house. You also made it to every choir concert and play. You loved listening to me sing, so much so that you asked me to sing “If Tomorrow Never Comes” at your and Papa’s golden anniversary celebration. I didn’t think I did that well, but you were so happy with it. You had all of your children and grandchildren performing that day. Your pride in us has always been simultaneously encouraging and humbling.

You and Papa also drove me to college that first time. My parents were each unable to do so for different reasons. We stopped and saw my aunt, uncle (your oldest), and cousins on the way. We had to leave a bit earlier than I would’ve liked b/c of it. I was seeing a boy and my teenaged heart was breaking. That boy and I broke up not long after (distance, etc.), but the great memories of being able to celebrate my cousins’ birthdays with them live on. Good choice, Grandma. I remember you and Papa joking that you didn’t know Epcot was so close to my college town b/c of the weather ball that we saw on the way in. You stayed as long and as late as you could, and then you headed back to MI, and left me in MO. You would later say that you and Papa had to talk each other out of coming back to get me, but leaving me there was the best thing you ever did for me. You were right. I probably would’ve hopped back into your minivan and gone home if you’d come back, and while I would have gone to school in MI, I never would have grown the way I did and met the people I did. Some of my best friends and my husband would have never come into my life if you had not had the strength to let me go. The above-mentioned 1-800 number helped me make it through the terrible homesickness that first semester.

Now, now it is time for me to find the strength to let you go, and I am not exaggerating when I say it is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever contemplated. See, you and Papa are supposed to live forever. When we come to MI, we land safely at your house. We stay up and chat. You show me what you’ve been working on in your sewing room. You make quilts, bags, and clothes now. The arthritis made crocheting too difficult years and years ago. All of my children, and my husband and I, along w/ many others, have blankets and other soft goods made by you. The idea that the last time that happened in November was the last time it will happen is devastating.

I meant to call you the day before you went to the hospital. One thing after another got in the way, and I vowed I would do it the next day. As a matter of fact, I was literally picking up the phone to call you when I received the news that you were being rushed to the hospital by ambulance. I wish I had forced the time out the day before when you were apparently doing pretty well. I had a bad feeling about this hospital visit.  Your fight had seemed greatly diminished if not altogether gone when I had last visited. I was hoping I could find a way to help you get some of your spark back, but it was not to be.

We received the news that you were not going home, but were instead headed to hospice, a couple of days before Christmas. My sister and I rushed up to see you that weekend. We stayed w/ our Dad and Stepmom. We arrived at their place, and Dad drove us up to see you. Papa was gone for the day as it was past dark, but you roused yourself when we came in. You smiled. You tried to have a bit of conversation, but it was hard for you to form the words and make yourself heard over the oxygen. We still had a bit of a chat here and there, and you liked hearing us talk to each other and Dad. After a bit, your pain became unbearable, so you were given some meds, and we left as you were finally comfortable and had fallen asleep. Visiting hours were also nearly over.

The next day, my sister was too sick to come to the hospice to see you as she had been stricken w/ a stomach bug during the night. Dad and I went to see you. Papa was there. He had me sit next to you. You were in and out of consciousness as you had recently been given pain meds. We all chatted, and whenever you came around we would talk to you. The aide brought your lunch in, and wheeled it right up to you. Papa informed her that you couldn’t feed yourself, and you won’t eat for him. She seemed a bit dismayed, so I said I would see if you would eat for me. You are on a soft diet, and for some reason, a heart-friendly diet. It seemed to me that once one is in hospice only being given palliative measures that a low-fat diet was probably not necessary, but such are the vagaries of institutions. You seemed to like the stuffing and the soup. You only took one bite of the potatoes, and I did not even try to give you the green glop. Dad and Papa agreed that it looked most unappetizing. You had 10-15 bites of food, and a few sips of milk along w/ some water. I wiped your mouth for you, and gave you a kiss on the forehead. I told you that I loved you. You patted my hand and said, “Thank you. That was sweet.” You seemed to be sleeping when Dad and I had to leave. I leaned over and gave you one last kiss and said good-bye and I love you for the last time. You breathed, “Love you,” and I walked out the door.

Knowing you are saying good-bye to someone for the last time is a shocking thing. I am still processing it. I am so glad I was able to do it, but I can’t really make my heart understand that the next time I go up to MI, I won’t see you. As much as life goes on, you and Papa, and your house, have been my constant source of stability and love. It is time, though. After seeing you in hospice, despite the fact that you are being well-cared for, I knew. You are still alive, but you aren’t living. You are dying. It is time to say good-bye and let you go. Uncle Mel and all your other loved ones are waiting for you. Your beloved mother, whose loss you felt keenly most of your life, is also there. I will miss you terribly, but it is time for you to stop hurting. Every day I dread getting the phone call that I know is coming, but I know it needs to come because you should be free. You can be the woman I saw in my dream last night, although I think you’ll have your own hair. I love you so much, and I’ll sing for you whenever you give me a sign.

You Can Save A Life

My oldest son is turning seven in a few hours. He almost didn’t make it to seven hours, let alone seven years. He needed assistance breathing when he was born, but, just as importantly, he needed a blood transfusion. He was so severely anemic that had he remained in utero and/or not received a blood transfusion, he would have died. My son is alive because a stranger went to a blood drive or walked into a donation center and donated a little bit of blood and a little bit of time. They were likely thanked by the volunteers and staff. The person who has allowed my son to become the compassionate, brilliant, funny little person he is probably had a cookie and some juice and went about their day. I don’t know if this person gave any real thought to the fact that what they just did could actually be the difference between life and death for someone, the difference between joy and sorrow for a family.

You see, my big boy’s blood type is compatible with mine, but not my husband’s. I am not allowed to donate blood for many reasons, and having just had a c-section, would not have been allowed to give blood to my son, and my husband could not. The kindness of that stranger saved our family in a situation where we were helpless.

I have always been a huge advocate of donating blood. I am not allowed to donate due to my medical history, although I have volunteered at blood drives, and I try to make it as easy as possible for those who can donate to do so. My son’s life is not the only life for which I am personally grateful to blood donors, though. Not two years before my baby needed blood, one of my sisters-in-law was also saved by a transfusion. It is her history, and I shall not divulge too much of it, but I will say two of the people who I love most in the world were saved by people who took the time and ignored any fear of needles they might have and gave blood. It is so simple, but so few do it. The supply of blood is frequently running short. If you can donate, please go out and give. It is simple. It doesn’t take long, and while you may never meet the people you help, you are giving an absolutely priceless gift.

To those of you who take the time, thank you. Thank you from me, from my son, from my family. Thank you for allowing all of us to get to know him; thank you for allowing his welcome to the world to be dramatic, but not a welcome and a farewell all in one day. He’s a wonderful child. He loves to help and care for others. Maybe some of his empathy came from you. Thank you for keeping my sister-in-law with us. We all need her. Thank you from all of the receivers of blood and those who love them. It is so simple, so easy, and so very important. 

So, You're Not A Feminist

I’ve noticed a somewhat disturbing trend most of my life. Women about my age and younger proudly declaring they are not feminists. Women in college and in the workforce who wanted to let you know that when Rush Limbaugh hollered about feminazis who still gave a damn about equal pay for equal work they weren’t one of those women. After all, they liked men. They had boys who were friends and boyfriends. Many later went on to have husbands, all the while letting the world know that we didn’t *need* feminism in the US of A, anymore. We have the right to vote and we can be anything we want to be, right?

Even then my head would spin right round, baby, right round like a record baby right round. First of all, why is there an assumption that women who care about equality regardless of one’s genitalia hate men? There is really absolutely nothing to support that assumption. We may dislike men who assume they have authority over us simply because they have penises (penii?) and we have, wait for it, VAGINAS, but that is actually more of a dislike of a cultural construct and an attitude than an entrenched hatred of, or even battle with, an entire sex. Also, just to be accurate and show my scholarly roots, it really is properly feminisms. We are privileged to not have to discuss things like access to health care (Wait no, that’s not right...), equality in the workforce (Hmmm… 70something cents on the dollar compared to men doing the exact. same. jobs?), equal representation in places of power (Ummmm, *some* counts, right?). Okay, seriously, we really do have it better than women in many other countries where women have far fewer choices than we do (Hey, at least we can drive ourselves places!), but we don’t do those women or ourselves any favors by pretending that inequality is dead in this country.

As a matter of fact, I would posit that the attitude by too many of my peers that we didn’t need feminism anymore has helped contribute to the current “war on women.” You don’t think it’s real? What about when a poorly written piece of legislation ends up requiring that you receive an additional ultrasound to relive the horror of your missed miscarriage before you get your D&C to clear everything out so that you don’t get an infection? How about when you have to supply a doctor’s note to you or your husband’s employer so that your prescribed medication that is actually part of your insurance plan can be covered by your insurance? Mind you, the insurance plan already has any pertinent information. This little violation of your privacy would just be so your employer feels better about what you and your doctor have decided is best for you. You wouldn’t have to do it for heart or cholesterol medicine. That would be against the law, but it’s okay to violate HIPAA if it involves your lady parts. We can’t name them too many times. The wives of Republican lawmakers in MI might read the word vagina and that would be awful. Many in my generation, and those that have come after, quit fighting for things to get better because they were afraid of being accused of unsavory things, content with their lot, or both, and in the process of declaring feminism dead and unnecessary, they put it on life-support and have made it more necessary than ever.

We have the worst maternity leave in the industrialized world. We have the worst protections for working moms. We have a pregnant woman named CEO of a major company (Yahoo!- both my exclamation upon hearing the news and the name of the company) who feels the need to announce that she isn’t even taking the substandard maternity leave that is mandated (Boo!). She’ll only take a few weeks, and she’ll work right through it. Some would argue that CEOs don’t get the same life-work balance as the rest of us, and I would say that that is actually a HUGE problem because a CEO who doesn’t have it usually sets the tone for the company. Life-work balance is absolutely necessary, and it is another area where the US sorely lags behind many other countries, but that is another blog post. Now, she absolutely has the right to work as much or as little as she sees fit. She has resources at her disposal that many other WOHM don’t. That little fact won’t matter to people who want to chase women out of the workforce by keeping our horrible maternity and family leave policies in place. They will point to this example and say, “See, you don’t need six weeks leave or accommodation for your severe sciatica! She didn’t need anything. If you can’t handle it, here’s the door or your glass ceiling. Have fun, dear.”

Some will also say, “This wouldn’t be a big deal if it were a man with a baby on the way.” That, unfortunately, is true. It is a big deal that she was pregnant, disclosed it, and was offered the job anyway because, despite the fact that it is 100% illegal, people discriminate against pregnant women when it comes to job offers and promotions on a daily basis. Expectant fathers don’t face the same bias, or frankly, the same pressure to be the parent who is there (again, this is a post for another day). I also happen to think it’s awful that new dads are rarely given, or expected to take, leave. It is required by law that they be allowed up to 12 weeks, unpaid, which is exactly what every company is legally required to offer women. Most women who take “paid” maternity leave have saved up their paid time off (vacation, sick days, personal days, etc.) to do it, and if they stay out the whole twelve weeks are likely taking at least some unpaid time off. 

The big problem is that it pits women against each other. Again. It has also brought up the whole SAHM vs. WOHM thing. Again. There are mothers out there with high-powered careers, and they would be being dishonest if they didn’t say that that meant sacrificing time with their children, just as the fathers with high-powered careers do. I would be being dishonest of I didn’t say that my decision to SAH has affected my lifetime earning potential, my ability, and even my desire to have a high-powered career. What American feminism has bought us is the ability to make these choices, and the ability to choose to not have a family at all if that isn’t right for us. What we seem to be missing is that not only are women in important positions still enough of an anomaly that it makes headlines for days, but that when they make it we have to debate all of their choices. Are they mothers (Whether or not one is a parent will always be mentioned for a woman, but not for a man)? If not, are they still of child-bearing age? If they are no longer able to have children and don’t have any, they will have far fewer distractions after all (again with the fact that the distraction of having children is not figured into the decision to hire an equally qualified man).  If they are mothers, let’s question their abilities both as mothers and as employees. We don’t debate the choices of the men who climb the corporate ladder. We don’t make men feel unwelcome and scrutinized just because they are men. We do it to women, though, and we call that a huge step in the right direction because they are even in the positions to begin with. This, my friends, is not the sign of a country that no longer needs feminism.

Also, it almost always comes down to appearances. People will mention how attractive (or not) the powerful woman is. It is rare to hear, “Steve Smith, the new CEO of ACME Sprockets is a bronzed, Greek god,” yet I do know the new CEO of Yahoo! is not only pregnant, but a “blonde beauty.” I can rest easier knowing that they didn’t hire some hag.

While we have many choices in this country thanks to those bra-burning, marching women (and those who came before them) whom so many of my sisters are afraid of resembling, we are backsliding. We need to make sure we have real choices. I choose to be a SAHM. Someone else chooses to have a career, with or without children. We are all respected for our choices, rather than criticized (within reason; if you kick puppies for a living, I will criticize you). Equal pay for equal work is a reality. We have access to healthcare unfettered by politics. Our bodies are not hyper-sexualized and air-brushed to the point that no one can meet those expectations. Rape is seen as a serious crime and not a messy “he-said/she-said” or “Well, you *were* wearing *that*!” These things, amongst many other feminist ideas, are my dream. We need to be vigilant. We need to take back our rights that our foremothers won and that are slipping away before our eyes, and fight for the rest, ladies. I *am* a feminist, and I am damn proud of it, and I think you should be too.  

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

It seems that one theme that runs through a lot of my posts is treating others with a basic level of courtesy and respect. This post will be no different. Today, I am going to tackle another aspect of the “Mommy Wars” (*gag*). The stay-at-home-mom vs the work-outside-the-home mom battle is one that has been raging for quite some time and shows no signs of slowing, which is aggravating as Hell because here we are fighting amongst ourselves over who works “harder” while the politicians are busily chipping away at our rights to vote, be treated equally in the workplace, and make the best choices for our reproductive health, amongst other things.  Don’t fool yourself; whether you are pro-choice or anti-abortion much of the current legislation will do little to stop abortions and much to curb you and your Dr.’s authority to make the decisions that are the best for you.

Let’s get one thing straight. It is a privilege to be able to talk about this topic at all. It’s very First World. I can promise that none of us work as hard as those who live below the subsistence level. Also, back in the First World, this debate completely discounts single parents (who are amazing), child-free people, and what and how men should be contributing. The whole of this topic is too big to cover in one post, so I will likely return to it at some point.

As the title of my blog implies, I am a SAHM, and have defined myself as one since my oldest was born.  I have actually only been a full-time SAHM since my youngest was born. Previously, I had a seasonal job that I was able to work around my husband’s schedule. After the birth of my oldest, I worked close to full-time hours that first summer, but as my husband is the main wage earner as his job demands changed, my availability changed because I did not make enough to justify paying a sitter, gassing up the car, and commuting. It is a position in which many people have found themselves. While the experience of one person is not definitive, I will say that that first summer wasn’t easier or harder than being home, but it was different.

Many things have inspired this post lately. The weird dichotomy of Mitt Romney being upset when Hilary Rosen, a Democratic strategist, said that Ann Romney had never worked a day in her life contrasted with the Mitt Romney who was the governor of MA and offering/forcing on women w/ very young children the “dignity of work” while forcing them into dead-end jobs. Which is it Mitt? Either what Hilary Rosen said is true, or that “dignity of work” thing was a load of BS in an attempt to put a pretty bow on a policy that was forcing a lot of single mothers into an untenable position. Also, while I suspect what Ms. Rosen was trying to say was that Mrs. Romney, with her staff, money, etc. didn’t understand those of us who don’t have those benefits (and it is what Ms. Rosen claims she meant), many people took it as a knock on the SAHM. Hilary Rosen even apologized for the comment, later. Still, it was not a politically bright thing for someone who is a political strategist to say.

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Then there is the tired, old “This is What a SAHM is Worth” articles that tend to come out around tax time and Mother’s Day. I hate them. First of all, I am not a psychologist, a nurse, or a chef. Yes, I deal with emotional conflict, first-aid, and I cook. I am not actually trained in any of that (although I do have an expired first-aid certification and I was a psychology minor, so I’m totally qualified), and for the heavy stuff, I would still go to the professionals, the people who went to school and trained for years to earn those titles. I don’t need some outside organization to crunch some numbers and validate my choices. What I do has value. Yes, part of it is monetary, but much of that value is intangible. Those articles also raise the hackles of many women who work outside the home. “Well, *I* do all that AND work. Should I get two salaries?” Actually, they don’t do all of it, and they don’t do as much of it. Yes, they care for their children, but someone else does that while they are at work (This is NOT a judgment; it is a statement of fact; much like the fact that while being a SAHM is work, it isn’t a job in the sense that you have a boss, office politics, and a salary, is true), someone they likely pay, unless it is a family member who is gracious enough to do it for free. Since they aren’t home all day, there is less daily care of the house, less cleaning up the family room after the whirlwind, fewer diaper changes, etc. They also sometimes have to call on those of us who don’t work outside the home for help, “Can you please get Billy to soccer practice for me? I have a late meeting.”

That being said, of course they raise their own children, take care of their own homes, and juggle a lot of the other things. The charges to the contrary are ridiculous. Working outside the home and then coming home and being “on” for the family can be hard. Of course, there are also the days with late meetings and travel. There are days when a WOHM might not get to see her children at all, and not because she’s having a fun night out, either, but because she is out there busting her hump. Not that there is anything wrong w/ time away for fun; we all need that, sometimes.

 I once read an abstract of a study that found that WOHM work harder than SAHM, but when I searched for more information and dug into the study, I discovered that the results were based on self-reporting and journal-keeping. When interviewed and asked specifically about tasks around the home, it turned out that the WOHM were much more likely to report every single activity they did in and out of the home, and the SAHM just sort of hit the highlights. If the SAHM actually logged the housework, childcare, and errand-running, amongst other things, as assiduously as the WOHM, it was probably a wash. In other words, while it is tempting to draw a conclusion about who works harder (and those who ran the study did, despite the evidence of the interviews; that is bias at work right there, folks), one really cannot be drawn here, although I would love to see a follow-up study on how women value what they do and their time and whether working a job affects the value we place on ourselves. I will tell you there are plenty of people who work harder than I do, and plenty who don’t work nearly as hard as I do. It has little to do with who has a paying job and who doesn’t, though. I honestly hate that this study was even run. It just propagates everything awful about the SAHM vs WOHM debate out there, and leads to things like this: 

Now, it is tempting I suppose, if one has a “little gig on the side” to see this, high-five other women in the same boat, and let us bon-bon eating people who *only* raise kids and run a house know how it really is. They obviously work harder and are superior to us. Of course, those of us who actually stay at home and prefer Peanut M&M’s to bon-bons thankyouverymuch, may take issue with this little “joke” that isn’t actually a joke. Then we are sensitive and can’t take a joke because we see that there is a little bit of basic respect lacking here, and a lot of not understanding what it is we do all day. Did you know that SAHM are much more likely to be depressed than the rest of the population? Did you know that one of the reasons is that we are continually told that we have no or less value than people with jobs in many ways (unless we’re getting head pats in “mom salary” articles, or worse, from Focus on the Family), including things like this little “joke?” Also, it is full-time, not full time.

“Hey, you get a break from your kids and house for at least eight hours, five days a week, and you get paid for it! It must be nice to only parent and run your house part-time while you eat lunch w/ out worrying about sweeping and cleaning after! Here’s your bon-bon!” is terrible, un-true, hurtful, and not funny.  If I saw that, or something similar, I would seriously be appalled.

If all the things the “other side” says about you are un-true and hurtful, why oh why would you assume that the things said about them are any more truthful and any less hurtful? Is it so hard to understand that we’ve all made the decisions that we felt were best for our family, and that we all work hard for our families? I respect any woman who is trying her best for her family. I don’t assume I do everything she does and vice versa, even if we are both SAHM. I think it is high time SAHM were offered the same courtesy as a whole. WOHM don’t do everything I do, and that is okay; I certainly don’t do everything they do.  

I sometimes think that in fighting to be allowed to do other work and to be respected as just as, if not more capable than men, in every field, we have helped devalue what is seen as “women’s work” (*shudder*). Instead of equality, where people choose what is best for them, and all work is respected, we have come to a place of women disdaining other women who make the choice to be home, and in return, the women who are at home are lashing out at the women who have jobs. It sets everyone back when all work isn’t respected. I also include blue-collar and service work here. Those jobs used to be seen as important work, but now too many see it as beneath them. I won’t get into how women’s rights and worker’s rights are intertwined. That topic is a different post entirely, but just remember that ALL work has value, and we couldn’t get by without each other.