Lucy Reflects

I’d like to say a little something about what is so wonderful and rewarding … and so frustrating about staying at home with your children.

I loved my career as a writer and journalist. But as many couples do, my husband and I made the decision that it was financially beneficial for me to be a stay-at- home mom and keep my second job as a bartender for some extra income.

I’ve had my share of jobs: working in restaurants, washing dishes, selling corn along the road, babysitting, bartending, being a substitute teacher and countless other odds-and- ends jobs.

I never imagined staying at home with my children would prove to be tougher than any of them. There is a pre-conceived notion that being a stay-at- home parent is easier than working. That, my friends, is an alternative fact.

At a job, you typically aren’t needed by someone 100 percent of the time. My co-workers didn’t need me to feed, bathe and dress them. And they certainly didn’t walk into the bathroom EVERY SINGLE TIME I WAS IN THERE. They respected my personal belongings and didn’t use my makeup to paint walls. They didn’t put their feet on my computer as I tried to type. I didn’t step on Legos at work and mutter the “F” word, trying so hard not to scream it.

I used to say things like, “Sure, I can edit that for you.” or “I’ll be unavailable this afternoon because I have to interview someone.” Now I say stuff like “Get back here so I can wipe your butt.” Or “What is that wretched stench coming from your room?”

Adults, for the most part, are logical. They solve problems or ask for help. Toddlers launch your Kindle onto the floor and stomp on it because they can’t figure out how to feed their stupid ABC Mouse hamster. They go from normal to the hulk in zero seconds flat because they can’t put a Barbie’s shoes on.

At work, people appreciated what I did. At home, we make cookies together and it takes three seconds for the kids to start fighting over taking turns. Suddenly it’s WW3. The kids are fighting over a bag of flour and who gets to crack the egg, which ultimately falls on the floor. Meltdowns ensue and everyone is yelling at each other and suddenly you’re sending a completely irrational text to your husband at work about how this is all his fault and he needs to come home and get HIS kids under control or you are leaving him for Jimmy Fallon.

When I worked, I wore nice clothes. I had a badge that made me feel important. I had confidence. Now I wear sweats, have constant interrupted showers and small people yelling for me to come downstairs and pick up a toy that’s one inch away from their tiny filthy hands.

I lack confidence as an adult because my life is now ruled by a three- and 10-year- old and we talk about mermaids and pirates and YouTube videos. I can’t hold a conversation about current events, but if you want to talk about adult women unwrapping toys on a YouTube channel or a teenager doing par core, I’m your gal.

My mom, who had six children, probably felt the same as I do. But I don’t remember that. I remember playing in the sandbox, watching her make me bracelets out of lilacs, playing volleyball and baseball as a family on the weekends, catching lightening bugs, and going for walks and bike rides. When I was scared to get on the school bus in kindergarten, my mom sang to me and built my confidence.

Sometimes I’m jealous of other parents who get dressed and go to work and talk to adults. I miss my job. A lot. But I know I would miss this more. I watch Max play baseball and soccer, or Bea pretend she’s on a cooking show, and I tuck them in at night and I think to myself, they don’t realize how burnt out I am, because they’re busy having fun. Do I occasionally fly off the handle as a parent? I sure do. But they won’t remember that. They’ll remember I was there for them and have lots of great childhood memories. And that’s all that matters. Well that, and picking up your F-ing Legos.

Thoughts? We always love to hear from our readers!