I Never Expected to Be a Stay-at-Home Mom

By Mindy Van Wingen

Courtesy of Mindy Van Wingen

It took three hours, every towel in the house, and $400 to clean up the disaster my toddler created by pouring 110 ounces of concentrated liquid laundry detergent on the hardwood floors and down a heating duct.

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I left my job for this?

This refrain dances in my head every time I wipe poop off the walls, listen to a child scream when he should be sleeping, or realize I am wearing the same ketchup-encrusted yoga pants for the third day in a row.

I never thought I would be a stay-at-home-mom. More than three years into this gig, I still have some ambivalence. I had two master’s degrees and a job I loved when James was born. I had no interest in trading in my career as a librarian for a life at home with illiterate babies.

If I had been at work and James had been in daycare — that was the plan when I got pregnant — the detergent incident would not have happened. We would not have spent a lazy Wednesday morning playing at the park, eating donuts, and shopping at Target. I would have been in a meeting and his sugar-fueled transgressions would have been someone else’s problem until 6 p.m.

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The daycare I toured while pregnant reeked of diapers and Clorox. Cribs lined the walls of the infant room like little baby cages. My mom threatened to uproot to Seattle to be my nanny, a kind but impractical offer. I was frightened about childcare prospects but still trudged through a bureaucratic maze of paperwork to arrange an extended maternity leave. I was determined to balance a meaningful career and a growing family. I was too educated, too smart, too feminist not to work.

I spent the first two months of James’s life struggling with breastfeeding, exhaustion, and insecurity. “I think I should go back to work early,” I confessed to my husband Jacob one evening as we pushed our cranky boy in his stroller. “I don’t think I’m qualified to take care of him.”

In those hazy early days of parenthood, I yearned for nothing more than a good night of sleep and a return to the familiar world of work, where I was a confident and competent adult.

But something magical happened a few weeks later. We were nursing better and sleeping more, and I was falling deeply in love with my new baby. I was enjoying motherhood. “Having it all” no longer seemed all that important.

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Jacob and I crunched the numbers and decided to invest in our family. Given the high cost of quality childcare, quitting my job made the most economic sense in the short-term. It may not make any financial sense in the long-term. I am envious as I watch former classmates and colleagues steadily climb the career ladder while my dry-clean-only wardrobe gathers dust. When I’m ready to work again full-time, I’m likely to see my opportunities and salary lag behind. I can’t help but worry.

My success can no longer be measured in promotions or pay raises. I’m overwhelmed at times with the tedium of domestic work and childrearing, and I have pangs of regret about pushing pause on my career. When I start fantasizing about dressing up and getting another job, I try to remember all the hours I spent in boring meetings or staring at spreadsheets.

I have two boys now. Sometimes James and I bake muffins and draw dinosaurs together while baby Daniel naps. The three of us go to the zoo, the park, and the library and have picnics together in the backyard. I recently caught James petting his brother’s shiny head as he whispered, “I love you, little buddy.”

I left my job for this!

When I admire the empathetic, curious, and passionate children I am raising, I know I made the right choice. Soon enough, I will have to send them off into the world and go back to the 9-to-5 grind. Until then, I just try to step back from the mountains of dirty laundry and sprawling fields of toys at my feet, take a deep breath, and soak in the view.

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