I'm getting better at staying at home. I used to be anti-agoraphobic. (I'm sure there's a real word for this, but it's easier to make one up.) If I didn't leave the house at least once a day, I went stark-raving mad. I've encountered a few other people with this sickness, so I know I'm not alone. I have dragged my kids out into blizzards and hailstorms for the sole sake of improving my mental health. Even a sweaty trip to the park on a hot day that ended abrupty at the hand of a partially pottytrained child was a better time than sitting at home. I know. I'm crazy.
But because very little in life is free and spending money every day would jeopordize my husband's mental health, coupled with the fact that I live in a place that limits the viability of daily trips to the park, I've had to learn to stay in. At least a little bit. I think this is a good skill to acquire, so I'm willing to give it my all. (When I feel the need to cheat, there's always the leisurely trip to the mailbox. It's a good 30 feet away from the house.)
I did pretty well for a few days this week. The holidays help, of course, because Kevin's around and we're usually focusing on the kids or projects or the kids' projects. But last night I cracked. Unable to take the sight of my four walls, beautiful as they are, any longer, I loaded up the baby and made a mad dash for the minivan. Under the guise of returning videos, I got to spend 20 whole minutes in the car with a child who can't talk or complain about the music. I took the scenic route, never once exceeded the speed limit, and basked in the fresh 10-degree air. I even treated myself to one last listen to Clay Aiken's Christmas CD, belting out "Mary Did You Know" at the top of my lungs. Camryn even jabbered along for a minute or two.
And just like that, though you may question it, my mental health fell calmly back into place.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Becoming a Stereotype
I've been away from the office for a week—no more than the duration of a short vacation—and I've already become a stereotype. My hair's been unstyled, my Clinique has gone untouched, and my wardrobe has consisted of sweatshirts and sweatpants. (Fortunately, showers are one of my favorite selfish indulgences, so I don't think I'll be walking around dirty any time soon.) I've become a stay-at-home mom.
To those of you stylish, put-together stay-at-home moms—and I know there are a ton of you—I apologize. You work hard to rebuff the stereotype, and I'm doing nothing to help you. I will say that it's easier to cave to the stereotype if you've got a quartet or more of kids and one or more is still in diapers. At least that's my excuse, anyway. But is it really practical to clean toilets and the bottoms that sit on them in Khakis or $60 jeans from the Gap? I don't think so, especially when you never know who's going to excrete some bodily fluid on your lap.
So here I sit, in my elastic-band sweatpants. If I'm gonna become a stereotype, at least I'm gonna be comfy doing it.
To those of you stylish, put-together stay-at-home moms—and I know there are a ton of you—I apologize. You work hard to rebuff the stereotype, and I'm doing nothing to help you. I will say that it's easier to cave to the stereotype if you've got a quartet or more of kids and one or more is still in diapers. At least that's my excuse, anyway. But is it really practical to clean toilets and the bottoms that sit on them in Khakis or $60 jeans from the Gap? I don't think so, especially when you never know who's going to excrete some bodily fluid on your lap.
So here I sit, in my elastic-band sweatpants. If I'm gonna become a stereotype, at least I'm gonna be comfy doing it.
How High School Is Like Real Life
I think two of our deepest human longings are to be irreplaceable and to belong. This is why high school is so traumatic. For those who thrive in high school, there's the dreaded hunch that once they leave, they'll be replaced by a new prom queen, a new student council president, a new basketball star. For everyone else—the rest of us—there's the desire to be a part of things, to feel like other people think we're special and important, to be an insider instead of an outsider.
These longings don't get any less strong outside of high school. Most of my post-high–school pursuits have sprung from a desire to belong and to find something that no one else could do like me. That's one of the reasons why leaving my job has been so hard. It was the place where I fit, where I was comfortable. (Nevermind that my friend and former coworker Craig always referred to my cubicle as a "veal-fattening pen;" to me, it was a sactuary and a place where I belonged.) My closest friends sat across the aisle, around the corner, a floor below. I recently heard that you should intentionally create social relationships outside of work, but I failed miserably at that. My job was never my identity, but it certainly was the place where I found my sense of belonging.
And then there's the sad realization that I'm completely replaceable. Like everyone else, I like to imagine that I'm not, but that's just illusion. There's always someone who can write a story or a video script in my place. They can probably even do it better. There's someone else who can organize the summer picnic and pull together a spontaneous lunch with the girls. And here's one that really terrifies all of us mothers: There's even someone who could take my place as wife and mommy if I were to get hit by a bus tomorrow. Would she do it just like me? No, but she'd probably do a fine job and my children would likely grow up just as well-adjusted as if I'd been here the whole time. Even in the job that is the most intensely personal to me, I'm replaceable.
What a downer, huh? Of course I'm way too much of an optimist to leave it at that. To the alienated high schooler, the mommy whose children have a new stepmom, the Air Force wife who has relocated again, the worker who has lost her job, there is hope. There is belonging as a child of God. It may not be as obvious as sitting around playing games with a bunch of friends, but it's a belonging that lasts. And it's a belonging that belongs just to me. And to you. We're irreplaceable. We're one of a kind to Him, and He's got a spot just for us that no one else can fill.
It might not feel very tangible—it might seem trite—but it's true. And it's what I'm holding onto these days.
These longings don't get any less strong outside of high school. Most of my post-high–school pursuits have sprung from a desire to belong and to find something that no one else could do like me. That's one of the reasons why leaving my job has been so hard. It was the place where I fit, where I was comfortable. (Nevermind that my friend and former coworker Craig always referred to my cubicle as a "veal-fattening pen;" to me, it was a sactuary and a place where I belonged.) My closest friends sat across the aisle, around the corner, a floor below. I recently heard that you should intentionally create social relationships outside of work, but I failed miserably at that. My job was never my identity, but it certainly was the place where I found my sense of belonging.
And then there's the sad realization that I'm completely replaceable. Like everyone else, I like to imagine that I'm not, but that's just illusion. There's always someone who can write a story or a video script in my place. They can probably even do it better. There's someone else who can organize the summer picnic and pull together a spontaneous lunch with the girls. And here's one that really terrifies all of us mothers: There's even someone who could take my place as wife and mommy if I were to get hit by a bus tomorrow. Would she do it just like me? No, but she'd probably do a fine job and my children would likely grow up just as well-adjusted as if I'd been here the whole time. Even in the job that is the most intensely personal to me, I'm replaceable.
What a downer, huh? Of course I'm way too much of an optimist to leave it at that. To the alienated high schooler, the mommy whose children have a new stepmom, the Air Force wife who has relocated again, the worker who has lost her job, there is hope. There is belonging as a child of God. It may not be as obvious as sitting around playing games with a bunch of friends, but it's a belonging that lasts. And it's a belonging that belongs just to me. And to you. We're irreplaceable. We're one of a kind to Him, and He's got a spot just for us that no one else can fill.
It might not feel very tangible—it might seem trite—but it's true. And it's what I'm holding onto these days.
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