Being a stay at home mom is really hard sometimes. Not just the days when the dog pukes on the floor and the toddler dumps his yogurt down his front, and the toilet overflows. Those things seem worthwhile after a morning spent on the couch together with good story books, or in seeing my child's face light up with a new found skill.
What's hard is that we've been conditioned since kindergarten to rely on external praise of our worth. Whats hard is that at the end of the day there are no colleagues with whom to sympathize, and at the end of the week no pay check for a job well done.
Deep down we know the worth of the work we do, or we never would have chosen this path of at-home-work with children. Intrinsically we know the value of each day dedicated to creating and nurturing our homes and our families.
But, somedays as as I plow on, following my insticts and trying against the odds to trust in theirs, I end up cursing the lack of a policy book that would dictate the proper course of action for dealing with a surly 9 year old. Wishing for some kind of assurance that I haven't somehow ruined my child for forcing her to sit and complete a handwriting lesson, or maybe for all the times I didn't. For someone else in charge who could review the guidelines for stranger safety that isn't helicopter parenting, or the appropriate steps to take when your toddler has learned to swear.
Because there is no one there to say when I've done it well. No way to know for sure that I won't look back on this all in 20 years and think what the hell did I think I was doing? We try, and most of the time I know that its the best thing I can be doing, most of the time its a blast, and most of the time I trust that I'm doing my best--and that just maybe my best will be just right. But sometimes its just fucking hard.