The surgery had taken longer than we expected.  The doctor had said three and a half hours but after Mom’s extended stay in the “recovery” room we were creeping up on five.  The surgery had been a success, of this we had been reassured.  However, she was slow to wake up and she would still be heavily medicated when we would finally be able to see her.   My father, sister and I started to anxiously pace.  Time had slowed to a stand still and every opening of the waiting room door would cause us to involuntarily whip our heads around.  Finally, the nurse, in a deceivingly pleasant tone ushered us into my mother’s hospital room.

The room was brightly lit and although she was awake she was hardly aware of her surroundings.  My father, large and lumbering tucked his tears back into his eyes as he gently touched my Mother and let her know we were there.  She quietly stirred and in a panic filled voice asked, “is it over?”  She would ask this question countless times over the next 24 hours incapable of holding onto any thought long enough to keep it.  Each time we would reassure her that yes, it was over, that the surgery had been a success and that she would be on the mend soon enough.  She begged my sister and I to promise that we would not leave her side and we pledged our obedience again and again. We would not leave. We would stay by her side.

The next 48 hours proved challenging as Mom slipped in and out of lucidity.  Sometimes reminding us to not let the dog get out, or complaining that she was tired and needed to go to bed, even though she was already in bed.  However, it was in the middle of those sometimes laughable moments that my sister and I discovered Mom’s true fears.

We mentioned that David and Marvin were going to be coming by to say “hi” and Mom grew quite concerned.  “Why are they coming by?” she demanded.  “They love you and they just want to see how you are doing”.  She gathered her strength as her eyebrows knitted together into obvious concern, “Why are they coming? What is wrong? What aren’t you telling me?” My sister and I exchanged confused looks, “nothing is wrong Mom. Were not hiding anything.”  This was not good enough and my Mother quickly grew angry.  She started to shout “What is wrong? Why are they coming? I know you are hiding something from me?” The recognition of her concern washed over me and it became my turn to brush my tears under the rug.  My Mother thought she was dying and nobody was telling her.

This woman who raised three children, never asking or saving anything for herself.  This woman, who sacrificed EVERYTHING from her body to her heart in the name of her children and husband. This woman who hid every sign of weakness from all of her children under the mask of being a tough, brutal, broad was lying in front of me frightened of her own death.

I took a deep breath, gently held my Mother’s hand and said, “Mom, you are not dying. The doctor said the surgery went just fine, the boys are coming just to say ‘hi’.”  Her tears leaked down her face onto her pillow as she quietly confessed “I was afraid they would find cancer once they opened me up”.  The idea would have seemed laughable if she hadn’t been so obviously frightened. “No Mom. No cancer. No nothing. You are fine, outside of the six screws and two metal rods. If you want to worry about something try the metal detector at the airport. Security is going to be a bitch now.”  She squeaked a smile and went back to sleep.

Three hours into the eight hour flight and I could feel the vomit starting to rise up in my throat. I thought about the fact that the plane was over Nova Scotia, and that seemed comforting to me. We had crossed the ocean and it was literally down hill to Dallas.  I cornered the stewardess and in hushed tones explained the situation; “I’m ten weeks pregnant and I’m fighting off morning sickness. Is there ANY food on this plane that I might be able to have in order to keep my stomach preoccupied?”  The stewardess, seeing the distress and desperation in my eyes, quickly conceded that indeed first class had pizzas and she would see if she could get me one.  As the plane started its decent into Dallas and I faced an hour commute home and then another three days left in my work week I thought to myself; “this is not how I envisioned motherhood”.

I’ve relayed that story hundreds of times to people explaining my decision to quit my high-paying job in media and stay home with my kids.  When David and I made that decision we knew it was temporary.  I would stay home until we could no longer afford it, or until the kids were in school.  We made that decision in 2006.  Four years later and I’ve faced some surprises and revelations about working and being a mom.

#1: I Missed Working

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t miss my job.  Not for one second have I missed sitting in meetings, listening to whining clients or having to fly off to some city at a moments notice.  Nope – never missed it.  What I did miss was the constant affirmation of my self-worth that I received from working.  People valued my opinion, my intellect and my abilities.  I spent years complaining to David that he didn’t appreciate what I did at home, but the truth is that I was the one that wasn’t valuing my new job at home.  I craved the feedback that a job brings – not the financial affirmation (although sure that is part of it), but the psychological affirmation of my self worth.

#2 Working Moms Need Help

The only reason why I was ever able to work before or now is because of the help and assistance that I PAY FOR.  Once I returned to part-time work (and recently back to full-time) we have had nannies.  I cannot say enough about the amazing women we have been lucky enough to bless our home.  I’ve written about Micki before (our current nanny) and indeed Mary Poppins has nothing on Micki. This woman is the wife that every working mother needs.  I tell her at least once a week that I don’t pay her enough for all the help that she provides and indeed there is not enough money to compensate somebody for loving and caring for your children as much as you do. I would never tell anybody how much she does for me or they might try to steal her away.  But let’s be honest, I can be super mom because of Micki – she makes me look good at every corner.

#3 The Right Job Makes A Difference

It was almost unimaginable to leave Lucy at home and return to work. I liked working in advertising but after I had kids the whole business suddenly seemed silly and pointless to me. I was working for the very industry that in some regards I wanted to protect my kids from. I don’t know, I couldn’t justify what I was doing at work versus what I COULD have been doing at home.  However, when I started teaching everything fell into place.  I LOVE my job and when I leave my house my mind easily focuses on my “kids” at work.  They have my undivided attention and care.  When I’m home my real kids have my attention.  Plus, I have a job that affords me the flexibility to leave and pick Lucy up from school or run a child to the doctor’s office if I need to do that.  All of these things add up to an ideal work situation.  If you don’t LOVE your job it makes leaving and being away from your kids so much more difficult.

#4 It Is Always About The Sacrifice

We all make sacrifices for motherhood. As a working mom I made the sacrifice of not being around for my kids but as a stay-at-home mom I made the sacrifice of patience and at times personal happiness.  Teaching has allowed me to have the right amount of everything.  I’m working and using my brain which brings me personal affirmation and happiness, but at 2:30 I’m done and I get to pick my kids up from school and be a mom.  This is a hard balance to strike and I recognize how lucky I am that I have found this balance in my own life.

At this point I’ve been on every side of the fence; full-time working mom, full-time stay at home mom, part-time working mom, etc  What I’ve learned from all of these variations is to be flexible.  Different stages of life require different combination of work/life balance.  At certain times I needed to be home and at other times I’ve needed to work.  There is no easy answer and no side of the fence is greener.

Stuff. We all have it. Some of us can’t get enough. We buy stuff, sell stuff, hoard stuff, collect stuff, give stuff away. George Carlin did an entire comedy routine about his stuff.  But it’s just stuff, right? If given the choice between our family and our stuff we would easily give up our stuff. It is, after all, just stuff.

But what would you do if you lost your stuff? All of it. Gone.

This past week my in-laws lost their home to a house fire.  They had just purchased this house two months prior. It was their retirement home. Although they weren’t fully moved in yet they had already connected their heart to the house. It was their home. They had put THEIR STUFF in it.  In a matter of thirty minutes the entire house was ruined and everything in it.  Forty-plus years of a marriage, raising kids, and grandchildren were up in smoke.

We wandered through the house looking at David’s little league team photos lying on the garage floor with soot rubbed around the edges, Max’s toy guns, Lucy’s Barbie doll, wedding pictures, school day mementos, Christmas decorations made in kindergarten, books from long ago — all destroyed. Some reeking of smoke, others destroyed by water, others a pile of ash, and the chant begins; “it is just stuff”.

Is it though? Our stuff. The crap that we fill our houses with is part of who we are – it is an extension of ourselves.  Even the native in a remote village in some foreign land has established a homestead of some kind.  He has stuff. He has a hut, a bowl, a bed, a knife – stuff. If he were to lose his stuff he would feel just as violated as my inlaws feel right now.

We are so quick to be righteous when we talk about our material belongings. We are pious about it. We all claim not to care about our stuff. But, we really do care. We spend a lifetime collecting it, shaping it, making it our own. It helps define our footprint in this world. Our stuff grounds us and makes us feel safe.  Our stuff is a security buffer between us and the world.  When your stuff is violently taken away from you, you are left feeling vulnerable.

My precious inlaws are fine. Nobody was hurt. The house will be rebuilt and new stuff will be accumulated.  It is, after all, just stuff.