I met my husband for lunch today at [insert generic restaurant here]. The boys were away and I was having a girls day with the youngest, so we thought it would be fun to get together. For once, I was wearing make-up, because I had a reason to look quasi-presentable. I was also wearing a smile, because I was out and about, interacting with people and getting to spend some quality time with my best friend and best girl-baby.
He was a few minutes late, so I plopped the baby on a table, sat down and pulled out my iphone. Yanno...because god forbid we have a SECOND of idle time that is not spent in front of a screen.
But that's another blog post for another day.
As I sat there, swiping through my email (which is code for perusing facebook), I felt eyes on me. I looked up and saw a youngish woman, dressed in business-casual clothing and sporting a fancy pocketbook, staring at me.
And my stomach dropped.
Because I knew exactly what she was thinking of me, and it wasn't pretty.
How did I know?
I'm not a mind reader, but I didn't have to be.
I knew because I had been her.
SHE WAS ME just a few short years ago.
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Rewind about 5 years.
I was living a 9-5 lifestyle. I would wake up, put on slacks and a blouse, do my hair and make-up, and drive to a cubicle where I would work 8 hours a day, 5 days a week.
In short...I was miserable. I wanted out. My job was almost as boring and repetative as my coworkers (thank god for the few who also moved to their own drum beat, or I would have probably committed suicide in the supply closet). My downtime was minimal and I felt more like a hamster in a wheel than a human.The grey walls of my cubicle were essentially sucking the life force out of me, and I was convinced that I was turning into a robot. Some days, I would attempt to break the monotony (and my wallet) by eating lunch at [insert generic restaurant here]. I would take my precious hour of freedom and flee into the sunshhine, briefly, and then into my car to drive to this establishmennt. I would arrive, park, and walk in.
And THEY would be there.
Those stay-at-home-moms I hated so much.
Those women, in their tight yoga pants and sporty sneakers, hair pulled back from the gym, gabbing with their friends while sipping a coffee, their babes parked next to them, sleeping soundly in their expensive "travel systems." (because mismatched car seats and strollers are for peasants).
They just looked so...happy.
So comfortably dressed, so content, so free...
Their lifestyle infuriated me because I was jealous. Not just jealous....GREEN with envy. Because they could choose their own wardrobe and spend their time how they pleased. They probably had rich husbands supporting their households, so they were left to spend the days going to the gym. And having lunch dates with friends. And shopping. And getting pedicures. And pretty much doing whatever they pleased. And well yeah, they had a baby in tow, but seriously, those things slept like 20 hours a day (or so I had heard), and honestly, it still seemed like a pretty sweet deal.
I'm embarassed to admit how ugly I was towards them. I seethed and hated and threw nasty glances. I looked down on them because they had no idea what it was like to struggle. To work and essentially sell your soul to something and get almost no life back in return.
My resentment was palpable.
I'm sure my crazy eyes scared off more than one woman.
*****************************************
So.
Fast forward 5 years.
Here I am, in [insert generic restaurant here], wearing my stylish jeans, hair done, face made up, smiling, waiting for my husband, with my sleeping baby in tow.
And SHE walks in. Miss 9-5, in her slacks and blouse, staring daggers at me.
Ouch.
I'm pretty sure she wants me to die.
Although she looked away quickly, I couldn't stop staring. My eyes were pleading with her.
Don't judge me! You have no idea!
Because she truly has no idea who I am or what my life is like.
She has no idea that I'm wearing my trendy jeans because these are the ONLY pair of pants that I have that don't have snot and yogurt on them, because I ONLY wear them when I'm "going out."
For that matter, she has no idea that the ONLY reason I don't have greasy, unwashed hair and a greasy, unwashed face is because having lunch at [insert generic restaurant here] IS MY BIG EVENT OF THE WEEK that I plan my entire life around, and that it can take me hours or even DAYS to prepare for, thanks to the endless needs of the children that I must place in front of my own.
She has no idea that I look so happy because for this is the first time in three weeks that I've left my house, and that I'd probably be wearing the same smile if I was panhandling for change, just because I was so grateful for a change of scene.
She has no idea that my job, while 1% amazing, is 99% boring and repetative, and that my downtime is minimal and that I feel more like a hamster on a wheel than a human. That my coworkers (ie, children) are essentially sucking the life force out of me, and I'm convinced that I'm turning into a robot. That some days, I attempt to break the monotony (and my wallet) by eating lunch at [insert generic restaurant here]. So I take my precious day of freedom (even though I still have the baby, so it's not REALLY freedom) to flee into the sunshine, briefly, and then into my car to drive to this establishment.
Do you see what I'm going for here?
This woman has no idea that we have the same struggle. And the thing that sucks most is that she'll never know unless she decides to pop out a few kids and become a stay-at-home-mom.
Being a stay-at-home-mom, I constantly have a war going on inside of me. The "old" me tells me that I should be grateful for my lavish lifestyle and feel fortunate for being able to stay home and care for my children. Meanwhile, the "new" me is all bitch, PLEASE, you call this lavish?!? And she's right, because most days I work 10 times harder than I ever did in my corporate job, while feeling 100 times more defeated, all the while looking like I crawled out of some dumpster in Bayonne.
And when I go out, I know that a certain percentage of the population is judging me. They think I have a sweet deal because I'm "taking time off of work" to raise the kids. Which implies that I'm not working, but rather doing the post-collage equivalent of backpacking through Europe. (which couldn't be farther from the truth. I CANNOT EMPHASIZE ENOUGH how far I am to anything resembling a backpacking vacation. Or any vacation, for that matter.)
And I can't blame them, because I used to judge too.
But their judgement is nothing compared to the judgement I place on myself, and that kind of blows big time.
To this day, I have to constantly remind myself that I'm actually working and contributing. EVEN WHEN I'm exhausted and aching and broken and haven't slept in days, part of me is telling me that I"m living a "lavish" lifestyle for which I should be grateful.
And you know what? I don't think I'm alone.
I think many stay-at-home-moms fight similar deamons. Because we know what society is thinking, and even if society is REGRETABLY MISINFORMED, we buy into it on some level.
Stay-at-home-mom = non-worker.
Am I right?
There's no real moral to this story. No great way to wrap it up in a tidy little bundle, because life is messy, and humans have a tendancy to forego empathy and jump right to nasty, inappropriate conclusions about other people. Hey, I'm as guilty as anyone for that.
So I guess it really goes back to those old sayings...
What are they?
Something like:
Be kind to everyone, for they're fighting a great battle
or
Before you judge someone, walk a mile in their shoes
or
If you're going to eat, wait 30 minutes before jumping into the judgement pool
or something like that.
Long story short...next time see a mom in yoga pants with greasy hair, just assume she's in yoga pants because all her other pants are dirty/too tight and her hair is greasy because she hasn't showered in 3 days.
Then tell her that her job - and her struggles - are legitimate. She would appreciate it.
And then buy her a coffee.
Because chances are she hasn't slept in days.
