For the last two years, I have been deceiving myself about my ability to juggle work and family. Prior to 2013, I was self-employed, often managing just three hours of work a day, sandwiched between yoga sessions and wandering through the toddler clothing section at Target. My background includes graduate school, a law degree, and a recent position as general counsel for a corporation. I was determined not to waste my education and to set an example for my daughter of a successful working mother who could truly have it all.
However, the reality was that I despised my full-time role and was neglecting my family. I needed constant reminders to bring necessary supplies for school events. This year alone, I forgot twice that it was my daughter’s turn to provide snacks for her preschool class, despite snacks being required just twice annually. I missed every parent event at my son’s kindergarten, only to hear from other mothers about how they comforted him during those times. Just last month, I dropped off my daughter only to find out there was no school that day—clearly, I had missed the notification.
I was failing at the so-called balance, and it was evident. Every morning, I found myself yelling, “Hurry up! Get your shoes on! We’ll be late! March! Do you want Mommy to lose her job?” This became a daily routine.
The kids often skipped breakfast, mismatched socks were the norm, and brushing teeth was a rare occurrence. Every morning was a battle as I tried to untangle my daughter’s fine curls while she cried. Conversations with their teachers were nonexistent, and a nanny picked them up each day.
In the last two years, I never once volunteered at their schools, as my executive status exempted me from state laws allowing parents time off for such activities. My boss had no intention of accommodating me.
Just this past Monday, I dropped my daughter off only to realize I was the only parent who forgot to bring in a shoebox for Valentine’s Day crafts—there were no extras available. I arrived at work with my chai latte and makeup bag, only to be met in the lobby by my passive-aggressive boss, who looked terrified of me. He invited me into the conference room, where my personal belongings were already packed. “We’re taking a different direction,” he said.
After returning home and freshening up, I had a meeting with my lawyer. This moment had been anticipated for quite some time.
When I got home to the kids and the nanny, I shared the news that I would have more time now that I was unemployed. My heart raced with fear, but the kids were ecstatic.
On Tuesday morning, I kept my yoga pants on and threw on a fleece to take the kids to school. Sure enough, I forgot the shoebox again. I tried to convince my daughter to use an alternative box we might have at home, like a cookie box or one from the bunny crackers. She wasn’t having it. The decorated rain boot shoebox was off-limits too. She wanted the exact pink and white striped box from Target, just like her classmates.
Off I went to Target, feeling a bit disoriented being there at 8:30 a.m. on a Tuesday. I made my way to the gift-wrapping aisle and spotted the last pink and white striped shoebox sitting all alone. I nearly danced with joy; it had been ages since I felt this accomplished. I refrained from texting my husband, knowing he wouldn’t understand the significance.
While I was at Target, I thought to myself, “I should also buy Valentine’s cards—early for once.” This was an unfamiliar feeling; I was actually able to choose from seasonal merchandise.
Twenty minutes later, I walked into preschool with the shoebox hidden behind my back. The joy on my daughter’s face when she saw me and the box was priceless. It was a delightful surprise, something I had missed doing.
That afternoon, while picking up my son from kindergarten, a fellow mom asked how I was faring post-job. “It’s tough, but I’m winning at motherhood this week,” I replied. She smiled knowingly.
On Wednesday morning, I dropped off my daughter, and her teacher inquired if I would return for Parents’ Day at 9:00 or 9:30. “Of course!” I exclaimed, despite having not marked it on my calendar since I hadn’t planned on attending. Now that I was unemployed, I could!
At 9:30, I returned to a chaotic scene—children crying as parents left. I felt a wave of panic, recalling the emotional toll my absence had taken on my own child. “Miss Jenna, does my daughter cry like this when I miss events?” I asked. She chuckled softly, assuring me, “No, your daughter doesn’t show that kind of anxiety about separation.”
Ouch.
Later that day, my son was distraught over losing the red string for a paper kite he made in art class. We retraced his steps and found three tiny pieces of string, which he insisted I tie together. We then spent the afternoon at the park, flying that kite as if we had nowhere else to be.
As we walked hand in hand to kindergarten, my son asked, “Do you have time to see our rain forest painting?” I replied, “Absolutely, I’m not in a rush.”
“Because you don’t have a job anymore?” he queried.
“I have a job, buddy. Being your mommy is my job.”
He squeezed my hand tighter.
I’m understandably anxious about what lies ahead and how I will support my family, but my heart feels fuller than it has in a long time. While I need to update my resume and start job hunting, that can wait for now. There’s a Valentine’s Day party to attend.
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Summary:
The narrative chronicles the author’s journey through unemployment and the newfound opportunity to engage more deeply in her children’s lives. It highlights the struggles of balancing work and motherhood, the emotional connections formed during this transition, and the rediscovery of joy in small, everyday victories.