Confessions of a Working Mother
By ERICA HILL
NEW YORK (CBS) Being a stay-at-home parent is one of the most difficult jobs in the world. The reward may be great, but the pay is lousy and there are few perks in the way of vacation, company or union-mandated breaks or sick days. The perception and prejudice that goes along with the "stay at home" title is equally exhausting; just ask my husband. For a little over two years, my husband, David, stayed home with our oldest son. There are plenty of stereotypes about dads - none of them apply to my husband. From the beginning, he was a fully engaged and involved father; I wouldn't have married him if I thought he was going to be anything but. I didn't change a diaper for the first three days of Weston's life - recovering from a C-section; I wasn't allowed out of bed. David changed every one, to the amazement of many hospital staff, and to our mutual bewilderment at their reaction. While he's always been a hands-on dad, going from life as an overworked attorney to the main caregiver for a busy 14-month-old is a major adjustment for anyone. It doesn't help when you begin hearing things like, "So, you're not working anymore?" or "Rough day at the playground?" or "Your golf game is going to be incredible." Ahh, yes...all that free time now that he's home with a toddler! And for even the most secure man, it can't be easy to step back and let your wife be the breadwinner. Being the sole working parent also presents its own set of challenges, and ill-conceived perceptions. I thought I'd be fine with the arrangement...or, mostly fine. Isn't the goal to raise your own kids, not have someone else do it for you? When we moved to New York from Atlanta, my job and schedule changed. We decided that with my crazy hours (2 p.m.-11 p.m.), we'd never see one another if we both worked. While we knew we'd have to cut back on some things, it was much more important to spend time together as a family, and for our son to have one of his parents tuck him in each night. Of course, I didn't fully factor in the inevitable pangs of guilt and the frustration. The guilt wasn't new. I think every parent (especially moms) places an unnecessary amount of guilt on themselves when it comes to raising children: not home enough, not present enough while home, too distracted by the BlackBerry, not really interested in reading "Goodnight Moon" for the 347th time, not up for schlepping to the playground, too short-tempered... the list goes on and on. And while my husband may have worried about the way moms were treating him at the playground or people who thought he was "taking it easy", I worried people would think I was a bad mother. After all, shouldn't I be the one at home all day? I told myself - and anyone who would listen - that he was by far the better stay-at-home parent. He's more patient, more fun...yet I couldn't shake the feeling I was still failing simply by being the working parent. And hard as it was to say out loud, I knew I didn't want to be second in Weston's eyes. Still, part of me loved our uber-hip arrangement. I was the envy of many moms, who swore their husbands could never handle it, and some wouldn't even trust them to be the main caregiver (a separate issue). I never thought for a second David couldn't do it. I also never thought about the control I'd have to give up. I like things done a certain way. Example: there's a specific way to make the bed, to organize the pantry, to fold the laundry. I wanted all of these things to still be done my way. In my effort to maintain control and to feel like I was being a good mother and pulling my weight, I'd rush around frantically before work trying to clean the bathroom, do the laundry or get dinner made for my boys. I knew David could do it all, but I didn't want to admit I needed him to take over these aspects of our life. Of course, what really suffered was our time as a family and my time with Weston. I felt guilty going in to work early for a lunch meeting, for getting my haircut, or doing anything in the hours I wasn't working that didn't involve my son. And, of course, it only made things worse. I didn't have a perfect "Ah Ha!" moment where I finally learned to relax and stop worrying so much, making our family life a rosy picture in a magazine. I did, however, slowly learn to give up control and to embrace my time at home. I learned to be mostly okay with not being the main cook or house keeper. A perfectly folded fitted sheet doesn't make me a good mother. Making a fort out of a sheet for my son is far more important and a much better use of my time. I know that getting to the gym, meeting a girlfriend for lunch or getting my haircut is not going to ruin my children for life. It could ultimately make everyone happier but cutting back on my stress level. And learning to accept my role in our family - however unconventional it may be - will only make me a better mother. I am a work in progress, as is our family. We are now both working again, and we're learning how to be a family of four with two working parents: figuring out which bits of guilt are okay, and which ones are harmful. At the end of the day if I can honestly say I made the most of my time with my sons and my husband - whether it was two hours or 20 - then I'm doing something right. The guilt will always be there, but so will the love, and judging by our sweet, smart, fun and very thoughtful 3 1/2 year old, we're doing something right.