Hey, friends! I’m over at Kindred Mom again! Today, I’m sharing about a burden I’ve recently set down: loving my job as a whole. Here’s the essay in its entirety. Or just read to the end and click on the link if you want the rest.
I sit on the cracking 70’s orange and gold linoleum in our kitchen, phone in hand. The trauma of the day hasn’t been anything catastrophic. My littles have been noisy and destructive and disobedient; basically, it’s Tuesday. But today I’m undone. Between the noise and defiance and the need to do something about whatever just got broken, I’m sobbing. I should clarify: I am not a crier. Unless I’m pregnant, crying is a thing that happens perhaps a handful of times a year. Anyhow, I’m crying hard enough that I can’t call a friend. I have to text:
“I hate my job. Hate it. I love my kids, but this job sucks.”
It kills me to say it. Typing it makes me a little shaky. I carry a load of expectations about what a “good mom” looks like. Among them: a good mom does not hate her job. Right?
When I was seven—the same age as my oldest daughter now—I knew I wanted to be a mom. I just knew I’d love it. I loved holding tiny babies, playing with bigger toddlers, giggling with them all the way. I figured the work involved with raising kids (all the things to do with keeping a house full of people running: dishes, cooking, laundry) would be worthwhile for the joy of it. I saw my own mother doing this—enjoying the tinies and handling the tasks— so I assumed what I saw as a seven-year-old was the totality of motherhood.
I was gonna love momming. Because a good mom loves her job. [Read more…]