This last month, the first of the new year, has been one of revelations. The first seems so obvious that when it struck me one day as I stood in the driveway as the minutes after four crept by, I was astonished not just by its simplicity but by the fact that it has eluded me all of these months. Clayton and Townes were arguing over a tricycle, Sylvia wailed whenever I put her down, and Dee Dee insisted on crawling up the stairs to the back deck, precariously close to the side with no railing. As my left elbow began to ache and my frustration with the boys grew, I watched our street for Don's car with increasing bitterness. Every few minutes I glanced at my watch, amazed at how little time had passed: 4:08, 4:11, 4:13. Townes was in tears, Clayton screaming from his time-out, Dee Dee now attached to my leg. All of my irritation with Clayton's bullying, my frustration with the babies' fussiness, my general late afternoon fatigue... All of it seemed to create a current that, by the time Don arrived, would be a river of resentment barreling down on him. He would greet me with a kiss and take Sylvia from my aching arms, but I would be stony and gray, rattling off the challenges of the afternoon.
And then, suddenly, the revelation came. This was not Don's fault! I had chosen this-- I, too, could be coming home from work, listening to All Things Considered, anxious to collect my tired children from another's care. But instead I got to spend all day with them, and if the work was hard, if by afternoon I was fed up with all the menial tasks and petty tantrums, that was only to be expected. Don knew it was hard; he expressed his appreciation daily. I did not need to prove it to him with my bad temper, as if my mood when he came home were a barometer declaring just how hard I'd worked.
Teaching was hard, too, and I hadn't stewed with resentment every afternoon. I had loved the challenges, prided myself on staying positive. What, then, was so different about this? Perhaps it's because mothering, generally, is so invisible. The vast majority of what you do is witnessed by no one but your kids, and they don't know, really, if the job you're doing is good or bad, easy or hard. You're just mom. And the frustration-- so much easier to look at my watch every minute and a half and think, "Jesus, Don, why aren't you home yet?" then to simply accept that the kids are on my last nerve and I'd give my left arm for a moment to myself, without blaming anyone.
And so, my revelation-- embarrassing in its obviousness, really-- became a resolution. The afternoon might be hard, but I'd try my hardest to be happy. When I finally heard the garage door open, or saw Don's car round the corner on our street, I'd let myself feel relief, but not resentment. And so far, so good!
