I started my first job at Chuck E. Cheese two days after I turned 16. From then on out, I worked on a fairly regular basis. Through high school, I worked during the summers as a "transient farm laborer," which meant I sat in soybean fields for hours, cross-pollinating the plants, or walked through miles and miles (or so it seemed) of corn fields inoculating and cross-pollinating. In our downtime, we massacred weeds in acres of fields and primed and painted my boss' house. I continued this summertime slave labor until the summer after my second year of college. I had also returned to Chuck E. Cheese, working nights and weekends.
I worked at Chuck E. Cheese on the weekends once school was back in session. I quit in November of that year (2006) because I was pregnant with Thing Number One and the constant regurgitation of EVERYTHING I ATE made it nearly impossible to function properly. I went back to work there when he was three months old. I started my first Grown Up Job when he was six months old. I worked there until I was hospitalized in 2010 before Thing Number Two's birth.
Now, almost a year and a half after Thing Number Two's overly dramatic entrance (just her style), I find myself a Stay At Home Mom. This is the most difficult job I've ever had. There is very little glory in it. And often, at least one of the three P's is involved somehow (if you're a parent, you know what the three P's are). Generally, the only appreciation comes from my children themselves. Don't think I'm foolish enough to believe that will last forever, either. But for now, they love on me and give me kisses all the time.
So here comes the moral of the story: Do not ever tell a woman who stays at home with her children that she doesn't have a job. Not being on a corporate payroll does not mean she does not work. She is often covered in poop, puke, pee, slobber, dirt, spaghetti sauce, and/or boogers. She gets up first and goes to bed last. She plays maid, chef, taxi driver, and nurse. She washes your dirty dishes and your dirty underwear. You don't say the person who babysits your kids doesn't work, so don't say that about us, either, because (and this is aimed mainly at husbands and boyfriends) we're usually raising the kids AND you.
I've learned over the past 16 months that I LOVE my job. I really love my JOB. And I guess that's why it's so upsetting to hear, basically, that I'm not contributing because I'm not bringing in a steady income.
Let me outline how things were around the time Thing Number Two came along. Dammit (my husband-- and I call him this because that word often precedes his real name when I say it lol) worked 40 to 60 hours a week at a dead-end job, making a couple dollars more an hour than minimum wage. I worked 40 hours a week and made less than a dollar more than minimum wage. Thing Number One had just turned three, so that meant two kids in daycare, since he would not be in school yet. Daycare would cost us $600 a month, and it would go up to $700 once he went to school and needed before- and after-school care. that would mean that I would work full time for $200 or less a month. Financially, it would be ridiculous of me to work that much for basically nothing... so why not stay home with my babies and raise them myself? From another aspect, it would be irresponsible because of Thing Number Two's health issues. As stated in the last entry, we were told by doctors that daycare was ill-advised due to her immature immune system. She was a preemie, and would almost certainly catch any virus going around the daycare, resulting in a good, long hospital visit.
Dammit asked me once why I couldn't get a job. My heart broke. It made me feel like he was completely unappreciative. Like he didn't think about the money I would make going straight to a babysitter instead of in the bank. Like our child's health meant nothing. Less than a month later, during a very, VERY heated argument, he yelled at me "Why don't you get a job!!" That time, I was furious. I stuffed the $2 cheeseburger I had bought for my lunch in his hands, and when he handed it back, I tossed it to the cracked, uneven concrete of his company's parking lot. I told him since I didn't "work," I obviously didn't deserve the food bought with "his" money. His statement (or exclamation, rather) proved to me that he didn't feel like I contributed at all to our family's well-being. I credit this to the stress he felt (and still feels) as the sole financial provider, but if I understand his stress, why can't he understand mine? I feel guilty all the time because the only money I bring in is from the occasional paintings I sell.
Luckily, Dammit and I finally gave into the temptation to express ourselves. We're both more sympathetic toward one another now. Now it's time for everyone else to realize that we don't just lay around all day playing Sudoku and watching soap operas.
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