Six months in, I had a very loose grip on the working mom act. Then my partner got a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity at work. The catch? We had to move from our small city in South Carolina to San Francisco, leaving our house, my job, and my kid's daycare behind. That's right — the amazing daycare that allowed me to be a working mom; the amazing daycare we applied to when my little one was still the size of a bean in my womb. In between packing and updating my résumé, I researched, called, and emailed every registered childcare facility I could find. No dice. They were all full with mile-long waiting lists, or not feasible to get to with traffic patterns, kept weird hours, or had health and safety violations that would stop a first-time parent's heart. Plus, many were priced so high that I'd actually be paying to work. Finding a job was a piece of cake, but finding childcare was damn near impossible. And just like that, I became a stay-at-home mom.
I figured it would be just like the weekends with a little less help and a few more chores. The house would be clean! I could learn how to cook gourmet meals! I could concentrate on my role as a mom, without having to brainstorm work presentation ideas while giving my child a bath! I could read a book! In fact, this whole stay-at-home mom thing might actually make for a nice little break.
Cue the record scratch. Most of my expectations were completely unrealistic and just downright laughable. Here's what I learned.
More time at home does not mean more time to tidy up; more time at home means more messes to clean up.
I am on call 24/7. There is always something else to do, the "office" never closes, and I no longer have the luxury of setting up an out-of-office email message to automatically reply to people who have questions. The to-do list is relentless.
Daycare gave me a window of time by myself after work to run errands, hit the gym for a quick workout, or just listen to really explicit rap music in the car. That window doesn't exist anymore. I can't even close the door all the way when I go to the bathroom now.
Paradoxical, but true. I sometimes go to Starbucks or the grocery store for the sole purpose of talking to the barista or the cashier. Not in a creepy or clingy way but just to exchange pleasantries with an adult who can string whole words together in a sentence.
I thought I would be able to do cartwheels down the aisles at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday. Nope. All of the other stay-at-home parents are there with their kids, along with retirees. There might be fewer people, there might be shorter people, but they take up a lot of real estate. Checkout takes a while.
My skin, tresses, wallet, and high-maintenance toddler are all appeased. Good thing I'm all for natural beauty.
Since I don't have to be out the door at a certain time, mornings are a lot more relaxed now. We snuggle, I make scrambled eggs, I hand my partner some coffee on his way out the door and into hellacious traffic, and then we do whatever we want until naptime. This one was a nice surprise.
Oh, the evenings. I usually need to complete about 87 tasks in the small window before bedtime. My toddler is like a boss who rolls ups to my desk to chat about nothing during the busiest part of the workday (think a tiny Michael Scott), and it's annoying as hell.
He's never short a playmate and gets walked every day. The witching hour also strikes around four in the afternoon here, but one hour outside (given good weather!) distracts one fussy toddler, settles the restless Golden Retriever, and cures this mama of cabin fever.
They don't just take away the dirty diapers and empty milk jugs — they wave, they stop to chat, they sometimes give out coloring books, and they allow me a five-minute break from reading books about animals making various noises.
On top of me not pulling in a paycheck, our spending habits have just totally changed. Less gas, more groceries. After a few months of expenditure analysis, our budget got quite the makeover.
Before, my husband and I shared a lot of the knowledge (or lack thereof). The other day, I went to get my haircut (by myself!), and I realized when I got home that a.) my husband had no idea our son has the climbing prowess of Spider-Man, and b.) my husband does not know who our new pediatrician is.
First, I am unsure about the "politically correct" term. Homemaker? Domestic Engineer? Second, people are weirdly judgy about stay-at-home moms. I just say what I used to do and plan on doing again someday and leave it at that.
OK, this one isn't entirely unexpected; I mean, Feminine Mystique was written for a reason. I had to find some intellectual and creative outlets to juxtapose wiping down the kitchen counter. Again.
This is my one heartbreak. I really love those Tagalongs.