11 months in, as a stay at home mom

I feel a bit like I have been hiding out for the last year, reluctant to tell people I don't work anymore. Or admit to the possibility that this has moved beyond a temporary status. I left my job of 15 years last October. Yes, I left voluntarily but it was with strongly mixed feelings that I had trouble concealing as I departed, perhaps because I felt so strongly that I had failed in the end. What had I failed at? I'm not entirely sure, perhaps just not leaving earlier.

Leaving was traumatic in its own way, but necessary. I had grand plans of taking a couple months off, dipping into a bit of savings to regroup and see what I wanted to do next.

At the time, it was not financially viable for me not to work, and this weighed heavily. Nonetheless, I took a pottery class, fell in love, and began researching professional potting careers, until I learned that most pros max out at about $7/hour and need to either be independently wealthy or teach. Scratch that.

I spent hours reading job postings, hating the ones that sounded like they might hire me and pay well, and having no idea where to start on the others.

Next came winter. And it was a particularly painful winter, to say the least. Back-to-back blizzards, many of which I spent home alone with the kids. I had to learn to use the snowblower and I spent too much time at Target, with lame-ass excuses that mostly boiled down to needing to leave the house. Snow days and sickness, however, no longer caused the sort of spousal fights where one of us would threaten divorce after the contest of whose meetings were more important (I always lost). But nonetheless, gradually, as I started dropping my safety net of childcare services, and launching myself into longer-term SAHM-life, I found myself wrestling with a strange combination of happy satisfaction and a weighty sense of continued personal failure.

And yet, I also found myself missing almost nothing about my old job. Well, except the paycheck and sense of independence it provided. Arguably, I am now investing heavily in my husband's success, by allowing him to leave early, work late if needed, and be free of the unpredictable tethers of alternating sick children, at the likely cost of my professional future, or so I can almost hear Sheryl Sandberg whispering over my shoulder.

It's uncomfortable to discuss, but at this point we no longer need my paycheck, which has removed the pressure to make a decision based on finances. For this I am fortunate. Yet this doesn't remove the sense of failure that continues to haunt me as I continue not working. If refocus thoughts on my future deathbed regrets, and resist the judgement I assume is contained by past colleagues who are still pursuing professional growth...I am happy. Heck, when I think back to facing 4 loads of unfolded laundry, every Sunday night before starting my work week... I am happy.

The kids have been able to slow down. I give them both the gift of quiet hours each day when they don't have to wear shoes and can lie on the couch if they so choose. These are options they did not have at full-time pre-school and after-school care.

It can be challenging to find purpose when so much of the day involves coaxing a 3-year-old in and out of the car, away from traffic, away from puddles...then afternoons driving around to my 7-year-old to karate and lacing his ice skates. It mostly gets better though. Finding other at-home parents as well as a reasonable routine for everyone involved helps a lot. Being committed and staying away from job postings for jobs I don't actually want also helps. There are no sure answers and, no, I have no long-term plan. But I do know this: I'll only be 40 once. And this is working, for now.