Working Girl

Once upon a time, I was a working girl. I put in 40 hours a week as a graphic designer for an inflight airline magazine. Before that, I toiled as an art director for a newspaper group. I have a whole resume, in fact. Which, considering I’ve been home for the past seven years raising kids, sometimes seems hard to believe.

Anyone who is acquainted with me, even vaguely, knows that I’ve struggled mightily with balance. I’ve never been able to get it right. At first it was too much work. After having Milo, it became too much family. Way too much family.

Yet, I resisted, while finding my way as a mom, working for someone other than Me, Incorporated. Because, beyond the occasional (or even semi-regular) babysitter, I didn’t want anyone else raising my kids. As much as I complained about being their main caretaker, as much as I thought I might explode if I had to endure one more day under the same roof as my children, I wasn’t willing to give up being their One.

I don’t regret giving so much of myself to Milo and Belle. How could I? I was able to experience many firsts I wouldn’t have if I’d been locked in a downtown office. But I will say that staying home did a number on my identity, and, in turn, on my marriage and my parenting. Everyone suffered, to a certain extent, because I, once again, wobbled around, off balance.

Even my therapist begged me to get a job. She thought it would help me, in many ways.

So I finally did it. I found employment. I’m working fifteen hours per week. Most of which can be done from home, but some of which requires face time in an office. That’s fine with me. Other adults. People to talk to. I work mostly while the kids are in school, though I have hired a babysitter to pick up Belle from pre-K one afternoon a week.

And I feel at peace in a way I haven’t in a long time. I love thinking of myself as a working girl again. It adds a breadth and dimension to my life that’s been missing for seven long years.