The Parental Ideologue

So here is what happens… you find out your pregnant. You start to share this news with the world. Everyone, and I mean everyone, has parenting advice. Family, friends, distant relations, people you talked to once in high school, random strangers will stop you on the street, in the middle of the grocery store, to tell you how they parented.

You have the baby, and the advice does not stop. Especially if this is your first baby. Everyone is a parenting expert, and they will have this irrepressible need to tell you the many ways they succeeded, how they did it, and how you should do it.

I would like to note that rarely do these home-grown experts own up to their failures.

Among the advice givers, you’ll find the ideologue. There are roughly as many different theories on parenting as there are lip gloss samples at Ulta. You’ll find parents from many of these groups, and they will tell you how every decision they make fits within the tenements of their parenting philosophy.

It drives me crazy.

I parent to the kid, not to the ideology.

If I had to pin my parenting philosophy down, it falls somewhere around “Get Everyone to 18 Without Losing my Mind.” We do practice quite a bit of attachment parenting, I do consider us gentle parents. But we routinely find ourselves making decisions out of the definitions of those philosophies.

Each kid is different. There are vast differences between Sprout and Pudge. Already, I am seeing that some of the parenting techniques that worked with Sprout are not going to work with Pudge. She is an entirely different child, technical and precise, then her wild big sister. Making decisions just to stay within the parenting tenements I follow, to have more cred as a gentle parent, will hurt my children, rather than help them.

Along with this, comes the books. There are hundreds of books at my local Barnes and Noble on parenting. Many of them proclaim with bold phrases in bright letters that buying this book will solve all your parenting problems. Or the DVDs. For just $59.99 plus shipping and handling, you can buy this series from world renown parenting expert Doctor Clown, who can solve all your parenting problems!!.

No. It just doesn’t work that way.

Parenting is not finding one parenting philosophy or book or technique, that will solve all your problems. Parenting is continuous problem solving. It is tackling the same problem from different directions. It is giving up on a problem and coming back to it.

Let me be honest. There are days when I wish one book, one technique, one anything would solve every parenting problem I face. But that just isn’t true. Some days I have to drink enough coffee to caffeinate a hibernating bear; do as much as I can with the time I’m given, keep the girls fed, clean and get them into bed, and call it a day.

And that’s my parenting ideology. Do the best you can with each day you’ve got.

 

~Jennifer

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In Praise of the Older Mom

In March of 2011, I become a Mom for the first time. In July of that year, I turned 31. If you’re doing the math, I will be 37 the end of this week.

I remember my midwife, remarking on what an odd case I was. An Army Wife who hadn’t had babies until her 30s. It was the first, but not the last time someone has remarked on my age.

Many, most of my friends have older children. They are past the diapers and potty training, sippy cups, footed pajama stage. Some of the friends I went to high school with have kids graduating high school soon.

Among the many things people questioned, was whether we had fertility problems. Let me answer that, no. Neither of the girls needed much more planning that tossing the condoms in the trash, and maybe a few games of beer pong.

I didn’t have children in my 30s because I didn’t want to. In fact, I swore for years that I wasn’t going to have kids. I didn’t want them at all. At 25 I seriously considered tying my tubes and just not having kids. I didn’t grow up with the idea of being a mother, rather I grew up running from the idea of it.

And I just had stuff to do.

Sometime before I graduated high school I wrote down what I wanted to do with my life before I turned 30. Some of it was typical teenager fare, get a tattoo, stay out all night long, go to a bonfire at the lake; and some of it was deeper, I wanted to travel, to see the sunrise off the coast of Texas, down by my uncle’s place, go to South by Southwest, take pictures of all the flowers I could find in Texas, read all the historical markers between my house and Austin. I wanted to trace my family’s roots back to Europe, I wanted to rescue animals and rehabilitate them. I wanted to shop, and shop, and shop some more.

Just before my 30th birthday, I checked the last one off my list. I got a tattoo. I still live for a good shopping trip.

I was famous, or rather infamous, for the volatility of my relationships. If it wasn’t passionate, I didn’t want to be in the relationship. But there was never any stability with that passion. It took me until the last years of my 20s to find the right alchemical mix of passion and stability and strength, in a man, to keep me interested.

And Hubs may piss me off. May infuriate me. May send me into fits of anger so bad I send long, ranty messages to my friends and drink too much coffee. But I am never bored.

We are stable. Bills are paid, house is cleaned, laundry done, all that domestic stuff. Last night we cruised around town looking at houses and talking about grass versus gravel, plants to put in flower beds. We are not lacking for stability. I’m not bored though. I’ve discovered that a stable relationship is more encouraging for creativity, gives me more opportunities to create and play music, than the wild affairs I found myself in.

I am a better person than I was. I was not in the right place to have babies in my 20s. I was struggling from the pain of an unhappy childhood, cutting myself free of a toxic extended family that has poisoned me for most of my life. I would not have been able to dedicate myself to my kids the way I needed to. Motherhood is one sacrifice after another, and in my 20s, I was too selfish to do that.

Not that there is anything wrong with being a little selfish. It gave me the freedom to chase my dreams.

I had a second adolescence in my mid-20s. It was less about my body changing, and more about my brain changing. I was settling into life as a grown up, and realizing I had responsibilities. I was learning how to balance a checkbook, pay my bills on time, do my own laundry, and cook my own meals. It would have been so hard to have a baby in that time of my life, before everything settled into place.

I’ve heard the phrase “I grew up with my children.” And while there isn’t anything wrong with it, it wasn’t what I wanted for myself. The first time I held each of my girls, and looked them in the eyes, I met them not as a half-formed girl, unsure of herself. But as a grown up, as a woman. Confident in herself, in her abilities to raise a child, secure in a stable relationship, sure of herself as a person.

I am a better mother for having waited. And my children deserve the best of me.

 

~Jennifer

 

Here’s to Us

It’s been a long, sweaty, uncomfortable few days at Casa de Brown.

Last week the AC went out. After a long series of screw-ups that will be funny in a few months, when we look back on this, the repair guy told us it would be until the middle of this week before the parts are here and it can be fixed.

For reference, it’s been 100 or higher for weeks.

Hubs and I were walking through the store, on the hunt for a portable ac unit, grumbling about inept repair guys, and the house being too hot, and why did this have to happen July 4th weekend; when I mentioned that we have lived through worse times before.

Our first place, the first that was ours with no roommates; back when he was in the Army, was a trailer. A painted bright green, trimmed in yellow, so garish you could see it from orbit, trailer. It had bay windows that faced the east, and during the summer, even with the ac going full blast, it was outrageously hot.

The next place was a trailer in the same park, this time painted aqua and trimmed in purple. (This was a theme in the park.) Across the street from our driveway was a hundred or so acres of swamp. We had gators. We had carnivorous bugs that hunted fish and flew. THEY FLEW. We had snakes. We had mosquitoes so large they would carry you off.

The summer Hubs was in Afghanistan, it rained every day for 6 weeks. The grass grew water-logged and died, and I am here to tell you that rotting grass stinks. Bad.

Once we had feral cats get up under the trailer, fighting, and one of them tried to crawl up the dryer vent.

One day, during the Summer of Rain, I went outside to get the mail. There was a nearly 5 foot long gator sunning himself in my driveway. He hissed at me, and I nearly broke my ankle getting back up the steps to the front door.

A hurricane came through, just the outer bands of rain and wind made it in-land to us. The trailer rocked in the wind, we sweltered through a day without power.

We drove nearly 3,000 miles in the summer, across the Deep South, to move to California. I was 20 weeks pregnant, we had a 3 year old, my Mom and our dog in my truck, Hubs had both cats in his car. Someone needed to pee all the time. There were stretches of time where the only stations on the radio were Christian music, NPR, and Tejano music.

After we made it here, we scrambled to find a place and get settled before I had Pudge.

We have fought, and fought, and fought some more.

He has deployed twice, leaving me behind.

I lost two siblings to cancer, and then an aunt. Hubs had to stand by, pretty much helpless, as I struggled through layers of grief. He still has to deal with it, when it comes back to me.

We have faced the prospect of life after the Army, and put ourselves back together. The time apart took its toll, and there have been incredibly rough times, where we fought each other, and fought towards each other, slogging through the bullshit that was between us.

So this? This is uncomfortable. This has been stressful, and hot and sweaty.

But we have been through worse. Here’s to us.

His Alarm

When his alarm goes off, I still half expect to hear the jingle of his id chains.

When he walks in the door, I still expect to see a freshly shaved head.

When he gets ready for work, I still expect him to walk out in ACUs and boots.

A part of me still braces for the day he comes home to tell me he’s on the deployment rotation again. I still brace for the avalanche of paperwork, the rush to get everything done, the rush to get packed. A part of me is held in reserve, waiting for the day I have to let him go, and watch him walk away again.

My little girl does the same. Sprout gets anxious when Daddy is not here at night, when he’s working. Night time was always the worst during his last deployment, and she still struggles at night. There have been times I have debated calling him at work, just so she can hear his voice, and let him talk her down from the stratosphere of panic. I always manage to get her settled back down, but there is always that temptation, now that we have the ability, to call Daddy for some reassurance.

We carry battle scars, her and I. Reminders of the hard season known as deployment.

I keep waiting for the tightness, that feeling at the back of my head, to unwind. We survived, all of us. On the far side of that last deployment, we are at peace. We’ve knit ourselves back into a family, we’ve added to that family. And still, that tension lurks in the back of my mind.

I should let go. I should be in the moment.

I try to be in the moment. I wrap a necklace made of prayer beads around my wrist, and they become worry stones, tiny pieces of stone to remind me to get my head out of the past, and in the moment. I meditate on the moment. I stay in the lotus position until my muscles are cramped, trying to find peace. It often eludes me.

I force myself to find the good in this.

The good still finds me. Traveling to new places, going to the beach, to see the twinkling lights of Vegas, staying up late with the girls, and watching them talk Daddy into one more movie, one more bowl of popcorn. One more bite of candy. Daddy can you play this song on your guitar, Daddy can you swing me up one more time, Daddy can you carry me to bed.

So I search for peace, and I search for a way to let go of the white-knuckled grip that I still have on the memories, and the pain. The good moments come. And gradually, I can let go.

 

~Jennifer

 

 

On Father’s Day

I said I needed a man who was tough enough to take on my problems.

I said I needed a man who would let me hide behind him.

I said I needed a man who knew how to cook, knew how to fix cars, and could iron his own clothes.

I said I needed a man who did not mind that my email address was in latin, that I read medieval history books for fun, and that I know some of the weirdest trivia facts.

I said I needed a man who would be a good father.

I said all that, in a note. I tucked the note into my journal, almost 10 years ago, and forgot about it. I got busy with school and work, and life.

And then -he- wandered into my life.

I had 1,001 reasons why it wouldn’t work. The age gap (I’m older), he was in the Army, I didn’t want to leave Texas, I didn’t like to cook, I had baggage from a string of failed relationships. He was nothing if not persistent.

I found myself, somewhere around 2 years after writing that note, sitting in a bathroom in a rental house in Georgia, south of Savannah, a few minutes from the gates of Fort Stewart. My pants were around my ankles, a Route 44 Strawberry Limeade was on the bathroom counter, half-empty. And 3 pregnancy tests were sitting on the counter.

Every single one was positive.

He became a father while on an airplane coming in from Iraq. He didn’t hold his first born until the next day. He smelled like dirt and sand and airplane, and his ACUs desperately needed to be washed when he dropped into the chair next to my hospital bed, and held his little girl for the first time.

And that was all she wrote.

Family life has heaped a heavy burden on his shoulders. He took it.

He held on as I cried through the loss of a sibling, and then another. I lost an aunt, then grandparents that never really liked me, and still I cried. He has endured countless mood swings; both girls inherited my temperament. He carried first one baby, and then another, on his shoulder, propped in the crook of his elbow, changed diapers, changed their clothes, brushed their hair. He’s learned how to give breathing treatments, allergy medicine, how to put on cortisone on itchy skin, where to put a humidifier to get the maximum effect.

He has gone to work on little sleep, after spending the night up with a sick baby and a wife too stressed out to remember how to measure out baby Tylenol. And slept with a sick baby in a recliner. And slept with a sick wife propped on his shoulder.

That note, with my list of things I wanted in a man is long gone. But I remember the last line, he has to be a good father.

He is the best father.

~Jennifer

What We Learned

 

The first day of school, and the last. Of course I took pictures, it is what I do, I record memories and save them. Print them, frame them, turn them into books to flip through. I compared the pictures, side by side, two little girls, gamely holding up signs and smiling for me. Or really, smiling for the bribe of candy I promised.

We have come so far. Some days I lead, and they follow, like ducklings at my feet. But I realize now that they have led as much, leaving me to follow. If I just shut up, and trust in myself; to teach, in them to learn, in us to come together, I learn just as much.

I’ve learned that I do not have girls who learn through play. Well they do, but I came into homeschooling thinking we would have a play-based, Montessori-style education.

Instead Sprout will watch documentaries on Egypt, come to me with questions, and we will stumble down a rabbit hole, learning obscure facts.

I’ve learned that Pudge will stack blocks, just so, over and over, until they are aligned perfectly. She sits patiently with a box of rainbow counting bears, carefully sorting them and matching them, standing them facing the same way.

Where Sprout is all instinct and rushing into things, Pudge is calculating, technical, taking her time to finish something. She still eats paint though.

I discovered a huge secular homeschooling group, and my sanity when I did so. Through them I found a history curriculum, a science, a math. I am better armed for the formal years of schooling, now that I’ve seen so many of them do it, than I was before. And I am better prepared for how the girls need to learn. They need to be challenged and nudged, led to discoveries and realizations.

Halfway through the year, I realized that many of the questions I was getting, about homeschooling, about what we do, were not questions, but were thinly veiled criticisms. How do you do it, really means can I do it. I don’t see how you can teach that, you didn’t take it in school, really means, are you smart enough to teach it. I’ve learned to see the genuine questions, and the criticisms. Questions I answer, and criticisms I ignore. For the most part.

Along with that, I’ve learned that some people are not going to respect my decision to homeschool. (Our decision really.) I’ve whittled most of those people out of my life. Homeschooling will be a huge part of our lives for the foreseeable future, and I do not have the time and patience to deal with the nay sayers. I do not want to create an echo chamber, but I do not want to waste my time defending my decisions either.

I’ve learned to write lesson plans, to stay organized. A few minutes at the start of the week, and everything goes smoother. It’s easier to fill those little brains and keep them learning.

On the other hand, I’ve learned when to throw those plans out and get creative. The weather will ruin a perfectly planned outdoor experiment. I will run out of supplies the night before a big project. One of us will get sick. Those days, we put our best laid plans to one side, and just relax.

Most importantly, I’ve learned to relax. Although my end goal is to keep the girls on roughly their age level in public school, it is ok that Sprout has atrocious handwriting and doesn’t like to work on it. Or that she is ahead in math and science. I can teach them at their speed, subject by subject, until things even out. But they are learning, soaking in everything I point out, talk about, whatever they read about. More of it is sticking than I ever dreamed would.

We do things differently. We’ve become more classical in style than unschool. We have more of a routine than many homeschoolers do, especially with young kids. But it is working for us. That’s what is important.

For the rest of the summer, I have plans to do summer school. A few projects and things to do every day, nothing like the rest of the year. Maybe some handwriting work, lots of science lessons and math, lots of art and coloring.

And then?? We’ll see how much we all learn this next year.

~Jennifer

 

Here We Are

I wasn’t planning on writing this post anytime soon. I have a couple I’ve been working on, writing and saving as I come up with ideas. But like most of my life, plans changed.

On June 6, 2017, I washed the last load of cloth diapers for my kids. A little over a month before my 37th birthday, and we are done.

Tonight, the 11th, Pudge fell asleep without her milkies. She asked, but this time when I told her that bottles were gone and I would be happy to get her a cup of milk, she whined, and then fell asleep. It probably helps that she was up almost 2 hours past bedtime.

I am sitting here, drowning my sorrows in hummus, tortilla chips and Dr. Pepper.

The long, sleep-deprived trek of my life that has involved babies is over. My youngest is 2. My oldest is 6. And the days of rocking a sweet-smelling infant to sleep have slipped through my fingers.

I am at turns unsettled and comfortable with this.

On one hand, both girls are sleeping better lately.

On the other hand… footed pajamas. Neither girl liked them much past when they started walking. So they have come to symbolize babyhood for me.

The Jennifer of Before Kids is not back. And honestly, she may never back as she was, so much has changed. But the Jennifer as I Am, the who I am beneath Mom, I can see her now. There is still so much I want to do, things I want to accomplish. I finished up my Bucket List, the one I wrote a week before high school graduation, before 30. In between 30 and 37, I have been Mom. And The Mrs. There hasn’t been much time for a new Bucket List, I’ve been too busy washing bottles and diapers, wiping faces and butts, rocking babies, folding clothes, pumping gas, carrying children.

To go back to those times of babies will be to give up what little Me I have rewritten. There is so much story still left to write, so many pictures to take and songs to learn, and tattoos to get. There is so much to do still.

But…

They were my babies. Long before they started claiming their independence, long before they started snipping apron strings, they were babies. They were my fiercely guarded lion cubs. They were mine. And I will have to give them up, to their own lives, far sooner than I realized.

I would stay longer in the Land of Babies, if I could. I would linger here, with tiny clothes, tiny fingers to curl around mine, and a tiny head propped on my shoulder. But the girls will not let me. They didn’t linger here any longer than they needed to, and now they are pulling me through their childhood.

We have tea parties to play, and dolls to dress up, sidewalk chalk to color with, and bubbles to blow. We have toes to paint, and lip gloss to use up. We have childhood to get to.

While I will throw myself into their childhood, just like I did their baby years… I may stop to look back. A few times.

~Jennifer

Redefining, Two Years Later.

It has been two years since I wrote Redefining.

I broke one of the cardinal rules in my family. I spoke openly about them, and not in glowing terms. I knew as I was writing it that it would not be well-received amongst my Mom’s family, but I wrote it anyway.

You see, I wrote it, like I do everything on this blog, for me. I shared it with the world, but I put those words to paper for me. I knew in publishing it that it would shred the last bonds that held me to the people that have done so much damage to me.

Their response was everything I expected it to be. And some even shocked me. But it was typical for them, gaslighting and meanness and the toxic attitudes I grew up in.

Those responses proved me right, that I had to, at all costs, protect my girls. There was no one to stand up for me growing up, but I will not let my children share that same fate.  I have been driven, since I held Sprout for the first time, to give them a better life than the one I had.

In taking stock of things, I’ve realized how far I’ve come.

My excommunication from the family no longer stings. I don’t find myself staring at the phone, or wondering why no one calls. This is simply how things are, and after I burned every bridge back to my family down, I built a new Family. I have this hodge podge collection of friends and some blood family, who are amazing, supportive, caring people. The definition of what family is supposed to be is found there, not with my Mom’s family.

The girls have grown, and changed. Sprout no longer asks for the family she knew, but instead plays with her friends, and shares a bond so tight with her baby sister that you cannot get a piece of paper between them. There came a morning when I realized the girls had forgotten the pain of the past, and I took my cues from them. Go play in the sunshine and pick flowers; and let the memories of the past fade away like a bad dream. Pudge is 2 now, with blessedly no memory of anyone in the family that has caused any pain, or drama. They are true California girls now, growing tan and golden in the sun, with an entire mountain chain standing between them and my family.

I have built a small bridge with my Dad. I find myself calling him more, sending him pictures and letters more. I can see him now, not as the monster my Mother’s family cast him as, but as he is. Flawed, struggling with his own demons, but human, and someone who loves me very much. I see myself in the girls, and that means I see plenty of my Dad. There was a time when I would have hated that. But now? It’s a gift.

I am the better for all of this. Several times in the past two years, I have doubted my choices. I have considered writing letters, emails, making phone calls, and starting to repair some of the damage done. I still haven’t, and I’m the better for it. I’ve learned who to rely on, and who to consider fair-weather, and who to just let slip through my fingers and keep going. I’ve finally, at closer to 40 than I am to 30, learned to see toxic relationships for what they are, and walk away. If I had paid attention, and been willing to stand up for myself earlier, it wouldn’t have taken this long. But at least I learned it.

There is no one to explain myself to. I parent differently than I was raised, I educate my girls differently, I’ve made a 180 in many aspects of my life. And I don’t have to explain any of those choices. By putting so much distance, literal and metaphorical, between me and them, I have freed myself of the expectations, and freed my children of the same expectations. We can simply be who we are supposed to be, without having to explain ourselves to anyone.

It brought Hubs and I closer together. We spent so much time apart, those first years, that I had no idea how to be with him. He was always away, when the going got tough, and I always turned to my family, even as the family used what they learned during those hard times against me. I still had not learned to come to him, when I wrote Redefining, and for a few months, I was a little off-center. But now, I’ve learned his shoulders are strong enough to carry my problems, that he is brave enough to face off against my family, that he never backs down. The qualities that made him so attractive, when he was a soldier, are still there. He is oftentimes my shield, my hiding place, my safe harbor. He is the best father I could ask for, the best husband I could want.

Let me pause here, and say that I am sorry for any pain I have caused. I did not mean to then, and do not mean to now, cause intentional harm. But I also will not just play along with everything, and pretend that things are fine, when they are not. I do not lie to my girls, and I will not lie here. No one has made any effort to see what prompted Redefining, nor have they made any attempt to reach out to me (save one person); so I do not feel too bad about the uproar the post caused. But I am sorry for causing anyone pain.

There is peace being on the outside. Out here in the desert, it is calm, and quiet; I can raise my girls and live my life, and be happy. I think I’ll stay out here a little longer.

~Jennifer

 

A Story

I want to tell you a story.

It is about a girl.

She was Rapunzel in a tower, except it wasn’t Mother Gothel keeping her there, but the weight of her family’s expectations. The goals they had set for her, the standards she was expected to meet.

There were times, when the wild spirit showed through. When she would disappear for a weekend and come home with memorabilia from artists in Austin. When she took off chasing thunderstorms across the Texas plains, and spent the night watching lighting storms in Oklahoma. When she went wandering into a club in Dallas, and learned that whips and chains were used for an entirely different purpose than what she had believed.

She dreamed dreams and made plans, different dreams and different plans than her family wanted. She slipped out from their thumbs to take pictures and pick flowers and watch movies and eat too much candy.

Her heart was broken. Her skin was bruised by a fist. She survived, and she was still wild.

But then, she met a soldier. She fell in love, into a safe, warm love, and suddenly found herself wanting all that she had said she did not.

She got married. They got pregnant.

And she settled down to a life of expectations. New expectations.

Good mothers do not go sky diving. Good mothers do not dye their hair pink, or blue.

A good soldier’s wife wears a dress without wrinkles. Her hair is perfect. She doesn’t have a pink stud in her nose.

Good mothers keep their house spotless, their children in perfect clothes. They put on makeup every day.

She smothered her dreams and hopes and wants in a layer of respectability. She learned to act the part, dress the part, almost be the part. But she was not a hot house orchid, carefully cultured and cultivated. She wilted like a wild flower in winter.

Listening to the opinions of others, she slid into roles she did not want. Said things she did not believe. She forgot the person she was, before, when she was new. She separated the part of her that created; that made blankets, took pictures, played music, from the rest of her. She surrendered to someone else’s idea of what a mother should be.

She locked herself back into a tower, this time of expectations of what she should be now. It was safe in the tower, it was what she knew. But it was stifling. She crumbled.

Her life came back to her in small pieces. Glimpses of the force of nature she had been. She picked up a camera again, dyed her hair pink, learned to play princess songs on her guitar.

And then… one night… in a shower so hot it turned her skin red and made her dizzy, she made a decision. It is better to be the person she is, than a Mother she is not. It is better to let her children run as wild as she did, without the weight of family. She could be the mother that let her children stay up late looking at stars, and still be a good mother.

She could have tattoos. She could have piercings. She could take too many pictures, play guitar too long, she did not have to do dishes before she went to bed. There was no harm in not folding the blankets perfect on the couch before she turned out the lights. It was more important to spend time with her family, than worrying about the cares of others.

To ignore the person she was, who she really was, when all the labels were stripped away, was doing her harm. And in doing herself harm, she was doing her family harm.

How does this story end??

I don’t know. Rapunzel came out of her tower and had a grand adventure with Flynn Rider.

It is time for me to come out of mine.

~Jennifer

Room for Me??

I have written, and re-written, and re-written this. The previous incantations are all in the trash, sitting there on my desktop, mocking me. Mocking my fear.

I am afraid to write this. I am afraid to post it. I am afraid to even say it out loud.

Here goes…

There isn’t a place in Feminism (the movement, not the people within it) for me. That is remarkably hard to type.

I am a stay at home mother. I spend my days in yoga pants, homeschooling two small children. I rely on my spouse, a man, for income. I go to Starbucks in flip flops. A trip to the grocery store alone is a small vacation.

Feminism is all about Leaning In now. A woman’s place is in the boardroom. And I am not living up to that goal right now. I traded in a job, a career, for late night diaper changes and singing the ABC song during circle time.

And Feminism is leaving me behind.

Often I see posts and comments online deriding stay at home mothers. I see things talking about how boring it must be, and how women who are at home can not be fulfilled with those choices, and we are part of the problem.

But I thought Feminism was about me having a choice. I thought the goal of the movement was to allow women to make their own choices for their lives, from pregnancy to careers, to where to live, to who to bank with, all the choices we get to make. I’m not home because I am forced to be. I am at home by choice.

Let me say that again.

I. Am. At. Home. By. Choice.

I needed a break from the rat race that is working. I needed time to breathe and be in this season of my life. I was tired and emotionally wrung out, and I wanted some peace in my life. I found that, at home. I am happier at home. I like being at home.

I had plans to go back to work. I had plans to put Sprout into kindergarten, and go to work. I stumbled onto homeschooling, and then I had Pudge, and I realized that there is, right now, no other place I would rather be.

Yeah, some days I get bored. Somedays I am so tired of The Wheels on the Bus and Itsy Bitsy Spider. BUT.

The good days outnumber the bad. The moments in the sunshine, playing in the grass, the moments in the rain, jumping in puddles, the lazy warmth of afternoon when we put a movie on and snuggle on the couch, those moments all outweigh the bad tenfold.

I thought Feminism was about choices. I thought it was about letting each woman make her own choices for her own life without interference from anyone.

So why then, is the focus on pushing me to work? Why is the focus on putting me back into a career and a job and a life I do not want? Why can’t I be at Feminist and be at home? Why can’t I be a Feminist and homeschool? Why must I Lean In, when all I want to do is Slow Down?

Is there room for me within Feminism?

~Jennifer