Thursday, November 22, 2012

The confessions of a work-mommy



Luky;
It was my youngest daughter's birthday around the beginning of the first school term - her fourth - and smiles of contentment were radiating from her round, fair little face. Her father had taken her shopping for her own present the previous day, and to his great shame she had selected a walkie-talkie doll, bigger than herself. But he couldn't resist her pleas and bought it.

"Don't you think it is a sin? There are so many poor people in the world. How could I have bought her such an expensive present?" he kept asking.
"Bosh!" I answered decisively. "When I was a little girl I longed for such a gift and I never got one. Catherine Nicolette and our second daughter have always longed for such a doll and we couldn't afford it. 
Just think, that doll was made in a factory where people are employed. It was created by other workers, railed by others, sold in the local bazaar. A lot of people make their living out of dolls like that.
I bet you even now a new one has been ordered from the factory already creating further employment."

Really busy
He looked dubious, but relieved. I was always a great protagonist of poverty when we were making ends meet. Once I was working I encountered so many problems that I no longer felt the need to perform sacrifices; it was all I could do to keep my sanity in the crazy treadmill of activity I had landed in at that time.

I know people who begrudge anyone a profit. They make their own clothes, buy everything secondhand, line up for bargains and plead poverty; yet they could buy and sell the rest of us.

Doing without
When I was broke I did without. If my husband had died when everyone, including the specialist, expected him to, I would have remained behind penniless. When he was cured I decided to make the most of our remaining years together, and if that meant that my youngest got a doll bigger than herself for her fourth birthday, good for her. She was deprived in other ways.

Now that I was a fulltime working mother I couldn't give her the attention other luckier children took for granted. I didn't buy her presents to assuage my sense of guilt because I no longer had a sense of guilt about working. I was just so grateful to have a good job, though that was only since my husband became sickly. 

Mutual appreciation
My youngest said a funny thing on her birthday.
"You are such a good mommy to me."  She always talked like that: we lapped it up.
"You are such a good baby to me, too", I said.
"You are a work-mommy".
"What's a work-mommy?"
"A work-mommy is a mommy what goes to work every morning."
My heart bled.
"Shame, love", I said, "do you feel sad when I go to work in the morning?"
"No, I don't", she replied cheerfully and went back to her doll.
The phrase work-mommy haunted me ever since. I was afraid to ask what she would call a mommy who stays at home. Perhaps she would have said: "That's a real mommy."

You can tell
Every time I saw a mother waving goodbye to her children in the morning, as I drove to work, I now found myself thinking: "You can tell she's not a work-mommy."
Picture the real mommy. Her children have had a cooked breakfast, their shoes shine, their bicycles gleam and they wave goodbye in the secure feeling that mother is there and will be there again when they return.

If they had a confrontation with their teachers or a classmate, there will be a sympathetic ear to listen to their woes. I know - I was a real mommy for fifteen years. I looked a mess and I hadn't a dime, but my children could truly have sung: "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home."

Proudest boy in school
Now picture the work-mommy. She doesn't bake cakes; she diets instead. Her hair is neat, her makeup is on; she's got plenty of clothes.
Her children don't look as well cared for as those of the real mommy, but she learns to shrug that off, along with the fact that she's simply too tired to help them with their homework at night.

One night my second son said to me: "I'd be the proudest boy in school if you'd work in the tuckshop the way the other boys' mothers do."
And a tearful second daughter informed me on another occasion:
"Our teacher says that if our parents are not interested in our homework, we can never expect to do well at the end of the year."
Which did not stop her from getting 72% average without my help.

The better part
Personally I feel that the real mommy has the better part. Her children have enough to eat, too, and their diet is probably healthier than that of the work-mommy's kids, who are often fed on quickie foods.
On the other hand, the work-mommy's children learn to stand on their own feet more quickly.

You can look on the pros and cons forever, but I find I cannot fool myself. I think the moms who are in the fortunate position to be able to stay at home have the better part which will not be taken away from them.

Catherine Nicolette;
I remember Mom asking me as a teenager if I would have liked a large doll. I said yes I remember, in order to make her happy as I understood that real girls liked to play with dolls. I didn't really want her to know that my soul had craved the gift of a rugby ball. The lads in the neighbourhood would never let me play rugby with them...

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