I survived the midterm gauntlet, and now we are blasting toward the end of the semester at ludicrous speed. My son has been getting over and re-contracting several bouts of flu-like gunk which is turning the whole household into sleep-deprived, dripping zombies.
I'm not sure what's wrong with me. I'm not an especially great mother: that "Leave it to Beaver" mom with the baking and torpedo boobs. I get so frustrated. I love my son more than life -- it's not about that. I'm unable to coalesce my role as MUTHA SUPERIA with the identity I forged prior to baby-making. I can't be that lone wolf crazy girl any more. I feel enormous pressure from my mom and everyone to be some kind of perfect mother. I just can't do it. Fail.
I ran into my friend April who has a son about the same age as mine. We talked about kids and family life. When she asked me what I was doing with TinyPants during ACADEMIC ADVENTURE TIME, I told her about my daycare. She asked me, "Wasn't it just awful?"
She was referring to the day when you leave your child in the care of strangers for the first time. Some of the moms I know speak of this day the way WWII vets speak about D-Day: traumatic and strenuous. Not so for me. On TinyPants' first day, he looked around bewildered for a moment, but immediately fixated on the other kids. He practically dove out of my arms to start playing. I felt such stark, cool relief. The world was mine again. The constant anxiety ebbed. I could go to school, and I could spend a few hours being me. Just me.
So, no, April. It wasn't awful. It was liberating.
Somehow I think this makes me a freak of nature. I could never, ever, EVER be a permanent stay-at-home mom. It is the most difficult and least appreciated job on the planet -- you don't even get paid! I give credit to the women and men who choose to be "full-time" parents. I just can't do it. I hope my son will be able to forgive me one day for being what I am.
