This or That

When Amelia was born, I worked in Orange County, and we lived in San Diego. On a good day with little traffic, I could make it to work in an hour and fifteen minutes. On a bad day, of which there were several, it could take up to three hours to get home. It was a tough gig. I'll never forget the cloudy January morning when my maternity leave expired and I had to leave my still sleeping, six week old infant and return to work. It's what I thought I had wanted. I loved my job. I loved my students. I loved teaching. I wasn't ready to give it up. But then I also adored the sweet-smelling, vulnerable, red-haired little girl, who not two months earlier was literally a part of my flesh. As I drove up the coast on that cold January morning, the sun still resting behind the invisible curve of the horizon, I felt like I had been torn in half.

Seven years later, not much has changed. Except that now I'm torn in thirds. And, by the grace of God, and the shameless exploitation of kids-eat-free restaurants, I have been able to stay home for the past few years.

I have appreciated these years. I have needed these years. My kids needed these years.  We moved, we added another baby, we had a devastating tornado in our community. There was a lot to process, a lot to endure, and a lot of comforting that needed to be done. Amelia needed a mom who would show up at school once in a while and sit with her during lunch, to help her adjust to the realities of a new school, new teacher, and new friends. Sadie needed an extraordinary amount of hugs and kisses to reassure her that she was not being replaced by the new baby. If I had let her, she probably would have crawled right back inside the womb, cuddled up, and taken a nap. It was neediness at its finest, truly. Sam needed me as a source of food, and now he needs me to make sure he doesn't swallow a battery, or stick his finger in an outlet, or lick the toilet seat. And while it isn't all sunshine and butterflies (some days are more like poop and tantrums), I can't imagine not having been here in the thick of it all. It's where I needed to be, where I have wanted to be.

Last night I updated my resume. Honestly, it felt good. It felt like a reintroduction to my old self, the self that could use words with more than two syllables properly in a sentence, the self that had kids across the country rolling their eyes at my alter ego, MC Grammar (Can't parse this!). Reviewing a list of my former employers brought back memories of students and colleagues, lessons I had prepared, and books I had taught. It energized and inspired me. And then I began to think about the all-night grading sessions, and missed  preschool class parties, and the kind of vague guilt that permeates like dust every aspect of the working mom life.

The decision to return to work has not been definitively made. A clear, distinct answer, served up on a silver platter and accompanied by angels singing the Hallelujah Chorus? I have this funny feeling the answer is not going to arrive like that.

Why?

Because to work, or not to work, that is not really the question. The question is how to make it all work out, even when it's not easy, even when we've (gasp) made the wrong decision, even when we have fallen and have to pick ourselves back up. That's kind of the essence of life, with moments of grace sprinkled in for good measure. I have lived long enough now to know that life, however you live it, is not a series of Hipstamatic pictures, taken at the right angles, with just the right lighting. Nor is it a sentimental montage set to the perfect music. It's not all sunshine and butterflies, nor all poop and tantrums. It's a little of this and a little of that.

Not perfect.

Not always in tune.

Hardly ever balanced.

Torn.

Not a question of this or that; of good or bad; better or worse, but a question of how to live with a little of the good and a little of the bad; a little of the better and a little of the worse; a little of this and a little of that.