Last night I crawled into bed with my son for cuddling and talking. I scooped him against me and spoke into his hair.
“Am I a good Mama, do I make you happy?”
“Yes,” he smiled. “I love you.”
We talked about his favorite food (chicken), and what made me happy (you do, babydoll), and what made him sad (when you do mean things). And then I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up.
“I want to eat some chicken, next year.”
“No,” I said, “I mean… what do you want to do for a job, when you’re a man? For work.”
“Oh, you know, playing on the computer, sittin’ on the couch,” he told me solemnly.
I fought back a giggle as he went on.
“Or opening doors really big with keys.”
“You know,” I told him, “You can be all sorts of things though. Like a fireman.” My heart broke a little. “Or a doctor. Or someone who drives rocketships.”
I’m a writer.
“Tell me a story about Aladdin,” he squirmed.
Eventually I kissed his forehead and squeezed him close and closed his door. I giggled a little more about the silly things he’d said. Then I sat down and let the hurt seep through me.
He’s three. Too young to think that I’m doing anything but neglecting him as I sit on the computer working. I rarely work when he’s home, usually just before dinner and just after breakfast. The rest of the time my mom watches him. It’s the only way I can get things done.
Playing on the computer.
When he’s bigger, what will he think of me? I don’t dress up to go the office. I don’t wear a uniform. My work isn’t physical or tangible to a child.
Am I a role model for my children?
I want to be.
I want them to be proud of me. I want them to know that sometimes my arms tingle and my hands shake because I’m scared to put my words in front of others. I want them to know that sometimes my fingers fly and weave sentiments I can’t speak. I want them to know that I had a big grownup job, that I excelled at it, and that my love for them meant more than high heels and an office. (It is selfish, my desire to spend my days close to them? To see my baby’s milestones this time, instead of missing them from just two miles away?)
My couch has an imprint from my ass.
Sometimes it’s hard—impossible—to be proud of myself. Even when a paycheck rolls in. Even when I scrape together assignments and odd jobs and contract work to pull my weight in this family.
Because we’re filling out paperwork for a short sale. Because my mom could be spending her summer in New England instead of here with her grandchildren. Because the bank calls my cell phone every. single. night.
I don’t drive a rocketship. And I don’t save lives.
But please be proud of me, little boy. I need you to be. Please.
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