Why You Should Never Rush Home
Often, especially when my kids were very young and we had three under four, I’d catch my husband just sitting in his car when he got home from work. He wasn’t on his phone, he wasn’t typing an email. He wasn’t doing anything at all. And you can imagine how pissed off that made me, as I tried to make dinner, referee battles and keep the baby from sucking on electrical sockets. You know, a typical relaxing day on maternity leave.
He’s just sitting there, I’d think. I hate him.
Now of course I didn’t really hate him. But I couldn’t help but be pretty hurt and annoyed by his hideout in the driveway. I mean, were we that bad? Couldn’t he see I needed help in here? I knew he could feel my stare even though he kept his head down. And his half-hearted wave when he finally got out, oh yeah, nice touch husband. Nice touch.
And then I went back to a job outside of the home. And that ride home, man, it was glorious. There I was, just me, blaring old 80s pop, singing without anyone shushing me. I had my sunglasses on, baby. No Wiggles for me–Ok maybe a little Justin Roberts now and then, but if you haven’t heard him go check his music out now. But I’m digressing back into mom-of-small-babies-dom. See how easily it happens? My point was this: when I was driving home in that car, I was free. Alone. No work. No family. Just me and some Rick Springfield, rocking out in the minivan. And man that felt good.
So yes maybe sometimes I began to sit in the car a bit longer than I needed. Sometimes I’d take a deep breath or two. Sometimes I’d say, crap, I wouldn’t mind just riding around the block a few times. I get what Tracy Chapman was talking about back in the day.
But then someone would spot me through the living room window, send me a drooly kiss on the windowpane, and I’d lumber on out, my own half-hearted wave in tow.
It wasn’t that I wasn’t thrilled to see my kids. I was. But I knew that the minute I walked in that door I would punch into my next work shift: mom of three, teeth cleaner, story-teller, dinner maker, art teacher. Each of these jobs were–and are–amazing, don’t get me wrong. But it sure felt nice and quiet in that car.
My husband has always maintained that he sits in the car to rev up for just that: the next shift of his work day. I’ve always scoffed at him because to me equating my time with my kids with work felt ungrateful and maybe even disloyal. But I have to admit that my husband was right (yes that distant sound you’re hearing is him applauding every time someone reads those words)–the transition from the office to the dinner table is not an easy one.
It takes a bit of effort to switch hats and go on the night shift. And it’s not saying we don’t all love our mom jobs, but if we try to be all Polyanna and do it all, never admitting that we are human too and that a little corner of our soul that still needs to dance in her car to Madonna, well, we aren’t doing anyone any favors.
So, moms, just do it. Take a breath, look down at your feet, avoid eye contact for five minutes longer. Think of your car as your own personal spa (the Goldfish on the floor–just imagine a koi pond). Give yourself a break. Prepare yourself for re-entry. The astronauts do it and so should you. Because like them you’re a bad ass. And you deserve a break.
Originally published by OptBackIn, visit their blog athttp://www.optbackin.com/blog/ for great content and advice for women re-entering the workforce.
