musings of a homemaker

Some time ago, it struck me that I was in the throes of an identity crisis.

We were at the bank, doing bank-ish, grown-uppy things, when the clerk benignly suggested that we update my personal information.

“Still living on Moss?”

“Yup.”

tap tap tap goes the keyboard

“And has the phone number changed?”

“Nope.”

tap tap tap

“Hmm…are you still an employee of West Vancouver School District #45?” (We live in Victoria now.)

Pause. “Well, I’m on leave.”

“Oh, I see. Are you planning on returning to work for that district?”

Enter blubbery explanations. “Well, not exactly. Not that board. But another one, soon! See, we moved, and I haven’t found work here, and you know, childcare…”

“Mmmmhmm. So you’re unemployed?” finger poised to tap

“Not exactly…I’m just home with my son until…”

“So you’re a homemaker?” finger poised to tap

I froze. There were my choices. Unemployed, or homemaker.

“Yes, I’m a homemaker,” I squeaked in a small voice.

“Okay,” she smiled.

tap tap tap

And there it was. Officially into the official computer at the official bank. I. Am. A HOMEMAKERRRRR!

See, I had always assumed that I would return to work after I had a baby. Yes, there were practical reasons to do so, but also, I loved my job, and spent many years trying to get there, and had no plans to cast it all aside in favour of ticking the Homemaker box. Heaven forbid. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.

Nonetheless, as my belly swelled and the due date crept closer, my excitement grew, not just for our family’s imminent addition, but also because I was going to have a year “off”! (The quotation marks will soon reveal their significance.)

Skip to two months ahead, and see me weeping as John leaves for work. “But I want to go to work!” I wail as he reluctantly backs out the door. Perhaps I holler “LUCKY!” or “NOT FAIR!” down the street as he walks away.

It turns out that my job, well, that was something I was fairly competent at. Caring for my furious non-sleeping infant and managing a little light cleaning? Not so much.

My irrational brain began seeing a return to my job as the answer to my problems. Then I would have my confidence back! I would have balance! I revealed this to several other new mother friends, who considered what I was saying with a combination of shock and bewilderment, cradling or nursing their angelic babies as I panted from the exertion of my requisite keep-Callum-from-howling bounce. “You want to go back to work?” they said, looking at me as if I had just farted and invited them to smell it.

Of course, things got easier. Callum’s rage at the world in general was slowly subsiding, I had upgraded myself from “totally sucking at this” to only “sort of sucking at this”, and the idea of going back to work no longer seemed like the greatest thing ever.

Then, just as my leave ended, we moved. Across the country. Away from job opportunities (for me) and our entire support system. And the idea of me getting back to work had to take the back burner, regardless of what I wanted.

And then (in the spirit of keeping this story somewhat chronological) there was the bank incident.

I was a bit rattled for a few days afterwards, and my husband’s shouts of “Honey! I’m hooo-ooome!”  and “Get this kid away from me! I’ve had a brutal day at at the office. Now where’s my newspaper, woman?” didn’t help. (That’s what I get for marrying Mr. Hardy Har Har.)

But then, I let it go. I stopped offering explanations about my current professional standing (nobody cares anyway). I stopped stressing about abandoning the feminist cause.* I stopped worrying that by the time I returned to the workforce, I would be rusty and irrelevant. I started being grateful: grateful to stay in our PJs until 9 a.m. if that’s what we feel like doing, grateful to spend over an hour throwing rocks into the ocean on a beautiful day, simply because it’s fun, grateful that I’ve been (privately) upgraded (by me) from “sort of sucking at this” to “doing her best”, grateful to be making muffins from scratch, and above all, grateful to be my awesome kid’s full-time caregiver.

Even if we are broke-ass. And the bank has my official profession listed as “homemaker”.

Totally worth it.

Gotta go. John is hollering for his newspaper again. Duty calls.

* To cite Gloria Steinem, who helps to shush that misconception: The goal of feminism is to honor and value all productive human work and open it up to everyone — including work that has been devalued because women, the de-valued half of the species, do it. To say that homemakers “don’t work” is a form of semantic slavery. Actually, homemakers work longer hours, for less pay, under worse conditions (more violence, depression, drug and alcohol addiction etc.) — and less security … So we can help a lot if 1) we never say “I don’t work,” but rather “I work at home;” 2) never put “just” in front of homemaker; 3) expect and require men to be homemakers and nurturers, too, whether that means husbands who cook, or sons who do their own laundry, or single moms who find male baby sitters and “mannies” so their kids grow up knowing that males can be as loving and nurturing as females — just as women can be as accomplished outside the home as men.