It is not so much I mind having chosen a career path so vague as to rank somewhere below “illegal alien bus boy” in terms of status, but rather, I get no respect for doing it from my home that really rankles my soul.
Forget. I think people sometimes forget on the other side of any piece of written work is an actual person with a real life going on.
It’s not all fun, wayward pets, precocious children and spell-check.
Sadly, most of these “people who forget” live with me. The rest are my dearest friends.
My daughter, will tell anyone who asks mommy is a “colonist.” By this we can only imagine mommy vanquishes redcoats in between play dates and PTO meetings. Muskets anyone?
My son, slightly more savvy to the ways of the world, prefers to say offhandedly, “Oh, my mom? She spends ALL HER TIME on the computer, that’s all. She just plays around and does stuff.” Ahem.
Plays around? Stuff?
Satisfied. My real validation (thank heavens) is the contact I receive from wonderful people, real live readers, who tell me how they enjoy my work. Yeah, it really does happen (thanks Grandma).
So there! Work? The rest of the time, however, the fact I actually “DO something” (as opposed to, say, “stuff”) is akin to having been exposed as an undercover agent for the CIA.
Clueless. A friend with whom I had shared endless play dates and socialized numerous times, once said, incredulously, “You work? I had NO IDEA you worked! I thought you were just a mom.”
“Just a mom?” And this from a fellow mother.
Crazy. I have friends who are amazing mothers, loving, caring, deeply involved with their children, and who freely admit working at home would make them crazy. To this I say – of course it makes you crazy.
Honestly, if you’re not driven crazy by motherhood, then how can you possibly fulfill its most basic tenet – passing your neuroses onto your children? It’s a parent’s sacred duty.
If we don’t have any issues ourselves, how can our children inherit any colorful stories? It’s the craziness you get from your parents which makes the world a more interesting place. Think about it.
The world would be lacking most of its great masterpieces and literature if all of the great artists and writers had had sane parents. I’m just doing my part here.
Mommy wars. Occasionally the working outside the home brigade will slip and nearly start one of those “mommy wars” the media likes to natter on about.
You know, this theory moms who work outside the home are engaged in a fierce battle with moms who stay at home. As someone who works, but does so AT home, I’m not sure where I fit in unless I’m like Switzerland, entirely neutral?
Nonetheless, a working acquaintance, in referring to a mutual friend who had chosen to stay home with her kids, nearly got swallowed up whole in that sticky trap herself. “Can you even see her as a STAY-AT-HOME MOTHER?”
“Well, yes, I can. Why not?”
“It’s just that she’s so smart
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