I recently quit my job. It was
a perfect stay-at-home mom job, requiring only a couple of hours of work on my
computer during nap time or after bedtime. I liked it much. I liked the work
itself, I liked the little paycheck at the end of the month, and I really liked
being able to say "I'm a stay-at-home mom, but I also have a job."
(Because a well-rounded woman is supposed to have it all, do it all, be
it all, right?)
However, I found myself twisting about in this ever-tightening straitjacket of the kids and the job, unable to ever find a comfortable balance. What's worse, I was becoming Angry Woman and felt like I actually needed a straitjacket, if you catch my drift.
Nevertheless, it was very hard for me to finally burn that bridge and let go. My husband went overseas shortly thereafter for a several-month-long work trip, and I was left alone with four children, three of whom were under the age of three, one of whom was a newborn. The elements had combined against me, and I got into a "funk." (This is Mom's euphemism for situational or seasonal depression; my six year old characterizes it as "being Eeyore," although in addition to the mopey, poor-me tendencies Eeyore's got going I also become high-strung and snipey, like Rabbit.)
But all good funks must come to an end, and when they do life feels even sweeter than before.
In celebration, I am noticing and documenting happy things. I've started a Family Joy Book. It's a plain little composition notebook with the words "Family Joy Book" inscribed very plainly in pen. The entries seem mundane enough:
However, I found myself twisting about in this ever-tightening straitjacket of the kids and the job, unable to ever find a comfortable balance. What's worse, I was becoming Angry Woman and felt like I actually needed a straitjacket, if you catch my drift.
Nevertheless, it was very hard for me to finally burn that bridge and let go. My husband went overseas shortly thereafter for a several-month-long work trip, and I was left alone with four children, three of whom were under the age of three, one of whom was a newborn. The elements had combined against me, and I got into a "funk." (This is Mom's euphemism for situational or seasonal depression; my six year old characterizes it as "being Eeyore," although in addition to the mopey, poor-me tendencies Eeyore's got going I also become high-strung and snipey, like Rabbit.)
But all good funks must come to an end, and when they do life feels even sweeter than before.
In celebration, I am noticing and documenting happy things. I've started a Family Joy Book. It's a plain little composition notebook with the words "Family Joy Book" inscribed very plainly in pen. The entries seem mundane enough:
"The little boys like to swing on their tummies. Luke can twist his swing around several times to make himself spin around."
This simple description lets me remember this moment as I happened upon it, both of them swinging on their tummies, side by side, heads and arms hanging low.
The joy is in the noticing and the documenting; it is not intended to entertain people with dazzling adjectives or pretty scrapbook worthy layouts. I intend to keep both the book and the descriptions plain and simple as a sort of metaphor that there is actually a lot of wonder and truth in the plain and simple.
