Wednesday, 18 November 2015
My Real Job
My daughter (age eight) told me yesterday that I should get a real job. And it broke my heart. I know she only says that because she thinks daycare would be fun. But it hurts to think that maybe she doesn't value the same things I value. It is important to me that I be able to pick up the kids from school, help them with their homework and piano practice, and be there to teach them to be good and kind and helpful and loving.
This job I do all day, every day, and even every night as I'm tucking my son back into bed because the wind is too loud or he's feeling sick or he's too bored to sleep, is real. It takes all of my energy and all of my thoughts and all of my heart.
I've never been a great housekeeper, even though that is part of my very real job. But I do keep trying. I get enough mental criticism from my own mind that I don't need it from others. What I need is encouragement. And to have them believe in me. And to find worth in the goals I am striving for.
Dearest daughter, you will have your whole life to hang out with your friends. But your childhood here, with mom and dad and little brother, is so fleeting. And guarding it is my job. You're nearly half grown up already. I want to be here for the rest of it.