A Mother’s Work is Everything
No matter my job title, I always default to Mom.
My index finger runs along the stitching on the arm of the sofa. My husband blurs in my periphery. I blink, and tears roll down my cheeks, soaking into the blanket I’ve wrapped around myself. Worn leather stretches between us in a gulf so wide we might as well be on opposite sides of the world.
The kids are down for the night. This is supposed to be our time. We should be watching TV — Ninja Warrior or Top Chef or The Big Lebowski for the hundredth time — maybe sharing a glass of wine.
Tonight, I stare straight ahead at the black screen and silently break in half. My children pull me in one direction; my job in the other. I must choose or be torn apart.
It shouldn’t be this hard.
My first day is tomorrow, and we have been ghosted by the babysitter who has been watching our kids for two weeks as we prepare for this transition. I woke up this morning confident and relaxed. Now, my shoulders and my stomach are tied together in one big knot.
My worst fear, I’ve just told him, is that I will have to renege on my acceptance, forced against my will to stay home, day after day, until the baby’s in school. Two years from now, maybe three.
