To work or not to work…that is the question
When I was pregnant, there wasn’t much doubt that I would be returning to work when my maternity leave ended. I’m not the “June Cleaver” type (with the exception of my love for vintage dresses from the 1950’s). I actually like working. At my most recent job, although it wasn’t the most challenging (let’s face it, you could put a monkey at my desk and they’d be fine) I enjoyed the people, the routine and the predictability.
And so Magglio was born. And yes, I love my son. And yes, I love the time I spend with him. But I still fully intended to go back to work. I even found a reasonably priced daycare in my neighborhood.
Then hubby and I started discussing the future of our family. When would we add more kiddos? And slooowly but surely, one question kept haunting me: why would I let someone else raise my children?
That, folks, is the million dollar question. All along, I felt like I had been swindled. All the feminist manifestos I’d read about mothering being the end of self (it kinda is) and how easy it is to lose your identity (not me) and how women sacrifice themselves for their children (eh, a little bit). That’s not the point at all!
For me – it’s not about my lack of independence. It’s not about buying a mini-van and becoming a soccer mom who forgets how to apply make-up. It’s not about losing the pregnancy weight and living in sweatpants and never buying a pair of heels again. It’s really about who is making an impression on my children in their most formative years. I don’t want to pick my child up from daycare saying words that I would never teach him, or being greeted at the door of daycare with phrases like, “Mommy, you’re going to hell because you voted for Barack Obama!”
You get the idea. The only thing more frightening than losing my identity to my children is allowing someone else to insert their identity into them.
(…and so help me God, if I never wear a pair of high-heeled shoes again, just shoot me.)