But mom, I want to sleep late and stay home and play with my toys.
Can’t you take the summer off?
You used to be home all the time.
Can we just move back to Fort Valley? It smelled better than Atlanta and you didn’t have to go to work. And I want my chickens back.
Working Mom Guilt. I have it.
Almost a year ago, when I started back to work for the first time in a very long time, Henry and I started on the same day. Summer was over and nothing was really different except he got to ride a bus from school and hang out with other kids for a few hours each day.
But summer. Oh, summer. What a different story it has been!
Every day there is a new reason he doesn’t want to go. A new reason he wants me to stay home. A new reason for me to feel bad.
I can’t blame him for wanting to sleep late and have playdates. All my life, growing up, I got to do just that. We went to the pool, had mid-week sleepovers, went to movies, we did it all.
As a growing boy and an only child, I WANT that for him.
But I also love being able to bring in extra income so we can do fun things like go to Disney for his birthday, head to Boone, NC for a concert, eat out whenever we want to… but those things are hard to explain to an 8 year old. He gets it, but only until the next day when he has yet another reason he wants to not do what he has to.
On the other hand, I miss being home like crazy. I miss the freedom of lunching with friends, grocery shopping at 7am when nobody else is around, going to a matinee with Henry… I miss being a full-time, stay at home mom.
Honestly, it’s hard enough when I think it all in my head, but then when he gets upset and says things like, “All my other friends get to stay home with their moms,” (which is totally not true… not ALL of them do) it’s hard not to let that guilt fester.
Sure, I probably don’t have to work, but I enjoy it. Even on days I don’t want to go and want to sleep late, I really enjoy my job and enjoy being able to make a little income so we can have fun.
And I know at the end of the day, he enjoys going to his day care/day camp. It’s just not what we’re both used to.
One day, kiddo. One day.