I wrote this last week and even believed it for a few days. The past few days though, I've been thinking a lot about working...
What do you do for a living?
No one asks me this question any more because I’m no longer in situations where people care. I don’t often meet new people, and when I do, it’s in the middle of a weekday when I’m with my kids and I’m clearly already doing what I do. But for some reason I feel the necessity to have an answer. An answer that implies that I’m doing something. I might say “I do lots of laundry and pick things up off the floor all day.” Or, “I’m taking a break from work to be with my kids,” implying that I’m normally doing something, but just not right at the moment.
When I was working, I was proud of my answer. I’m a Marketing Manager for this or that company. I attend meetings, analyze reports, give presentations. I get to be creative, fly to New York, fly to New York to be creative!
The New York office was a five-minute walk from our hotel in Times Square. It overlooked Bryant Park, a verdant oasis adjacent to the Public Library and surrounded by my favorite healthy eateries. It was an ideal location that tricked you into thinking you might actually be on vacation instead of a business trip. I loved those trips and I loved my job. It was exciting to be busy and it felt good to talk about how busy I was, especially since it’s a requisite for being accepted in our society.
If you’re not perpetually busy, something must be missing from your life. You must not be interesting or important enough. It’s a sentiment I think many stay-at-home mothers struggle with and overcompensate where they can, such as scrubbing their homes to a spotless shine or teaching their one-year-olds the alphabet.
I knew I wasn’t a supermom when every afternoon for the first eighteen months of my daughter’s life, on the verge of tears I’d mutter to myself, “I hate my job.”
What a selfish thing to think! But the truth was some days the boredom and tedium were unbearable. Fourteen frazzled hours a day spent cleaning the floor, changing diapers and consoling crying children without a break isn’t anyone’s dream job, is it? And why can’t these children entertain themselves or reason like normal adults?
Well, children do grow up and they do start to listen to reason. After an important series of turning points (like walking, talking and potty training) the fog clears and you can see the good that’s been smothered for so long. As the kids get taller and less demanding, the days get shorter and less exhausting. There emerges those long-awaited breaks to sit, think, breathe.
Lately, when my son’s in preschool and my daughter’s napping, I lay in my son’s firm, comfortable bed to bask in the bright innocence that glows from within his room. His turquoise walls contrast cheerfully with his colorful pictures and paintings. An old hutch painted sea foam green comes alive with children’s books and toys. Lying there is a comfort I would never experience if I were confined to a cubicle or away on business.
When I’m out running errands on a sunny day I let my mind go blank to magnify the pleasure of the sun on my skin. If I think about it, I really don’t have much to think about, and I have most of the day to…not think. I wouldn’t have that luxury if I were rushing to and from work every day, deep in thought.
When I’m playing with my daughter I pause to admire her soft, blond, Botticelli hair. With shiny curls like tiny waves reflecting the sun. Golden shimmering wisps floating this way and that. Smelling of nostalgically clean baby shampoo. Texture as delicate and airy as white goose down. It’s a delicious experience that satiates the soul, feeds the voids left by unanswered emotions.
I could never appreciate this beauty if I was too important and busy.
So even if no one asks me what I do, for a living or otherwise, proud or not, at least I’m comfortable with my answer: For now, I’m just simply
Living.
Nowadays in the mornings I wake up feeling about as fresh as a shriveled up tomato forgotten at the bottom of a fruit bowl. 
