For the first year I was home with my kids, we only had one car and my husband worked an hour and a half away. While he was gone 12 hours a day, I was happily home with the offspring.
This arrangement was perfectly fine with me. It was part of the bargain for me to stay home, which I desperately wanted. It did, however, turn me into a full-on hermit.
Dubbed a social butterfly by my mother at the tender age of 11, I’ve always been doing something or going somewhere. Making the switch to round-the-clock homebody was a BIG change for me. But, I was willing to accept it in exchange for living my dream of watching my littles be little. I didn’t miss a single one of my youngest’s firsts, the way I heartbreakingly did with my older two.
Still, I started to slide into a mental funk. I was used to seeing my friends regularly, taking “working lunches” and not feeling guilty when I spent a few bucks on a discounted purse. That changed when I left my 9 to 5 lifestyle behind. Not because my husband begrudged any of it, but because I didn’t feel comfortable walking out the door as he was walking in. I missed him. We’re one of those sickening couples that’s just plain better when we’re together. And, as a woman who always had a paying gig, I felt guilty about buying things that weren’t necessities, because I wasn’t bringing in a paycheck.
As time wore on, I started to shy away from the few opportunities I’d get to go out, despite my husband’s urging to do so. I’d change from my sleeping pj’s to my work clothes…which were just clean pj’s. My hair was always in a messy bun and my children were shocked on the rare occasion I’d make use of my unnecessarily, yet beautifully, large amount of cosmetics. My accessories gathered dust in my closet and jewelry box. To this day, I still feel their cold, grudge-holding stares.
In July, the game changed. I began freelance writing and the hubz left the office in the burbs and became a full-time freelancer himself. Best. Adjustment. Ever.
The sun shines brightly on the Cooper house once again. Having him here changes everything. He’s home, where he’s always wanted to be, doing what he loves without dealing with bull-pucky office politics. And I’m rediscovering my friends, my interests and most importantly my wardrobe.
Life is good.
BUT…now that I’ve been released back into the wild, I run into faces of my not-so-distant past and am usually hit with one or more of the following questions:
“Who’s with your kids?”
“How did you manage to get out of the house?”
“Is your husband babysitting?”
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
My husband’s with OUR kids. I drove my minivan to this-here fancy supermarket. And no, he’s not babysitting. HE’S THEIR FATHER!!!
Why is it that when I’m with our children, it’s my motherly duty. BUT if the hubz is keeping the home-fires burning, he’s “babysitting?” The last I checked, he was VERY much personally involved in their inductions to the Cooper Clan.
He’s not doing me a favor. He’s being a dad. No one asks him if his wife is babysitting when he makes an unaccompanied trip to the gas station.
This, ladies, is a cultural mindset we need to alter. If we’re being bombarded with questions like these, it makes us feel like:
- We’re taking part in some crazy, dancing-naked-by-the-moonlight, taboo-y ritual
- Our husbands should be nominated for some sort of OOOH-SAINTHOOD-DOESN’T-COVER-YOUR-LEVEL-OF-SACRIFICE Award
- There’s some sort of natural unbalance in the parental partnership that leaves us more responsible for our children then our husbands, and we’re not pulling our weight
That’s all some bogus bologna, mamas!
DADDIES AREN’T BABYSITTERS!! They’re parents, just like mommies!
Before the dads who read my blog…and I know you are…I see everything…get their boxer-briefs in a knot, I need to clarify something… I completely appreciate when my husband stays home with the kids and I get a chance to see the outside world without a diaper bag gracing my shoulder. My husband is the biggity bomb…yeah, I went there. I’m thankful for his staying with the kids while I get my hair dyed, as much as he is when he goes to see the latest 3-D action flick. We approach the care of our children the same way we do everything else in this crazy life we’ve created, as partners.
My beef is with the general implication that moms are getting away with something when they’re out and about. It’s unfair, and untrue. EVERY parent, man or woman, deserves time for a breather. While one’s away, the other isn’t “babysitting” he or she is taking care of “their”…children. Their is the operative word here. The three messy, rowdy, playful, deliciously devious and adorably cuddly boys that reside in my home belong to both my husband and me. They’re not my kids or his kids, they’re OUR kids.
When mama’s away, HE AIN’T NO BABYSITTER!
