Clever Magazine, Vol. 6, #4 " Time Off " (www.clevermag.com)

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My Time Off
by Melissa Westemeier

That’s my claim anyway, when people ask me, “So, are you going to teach again soon?” “Nope,” I tell them, “I’m taking some time off until the youngest is two or three. Then we’ll see.”

And silently I growl and gnash my teeth while a great red rage fills my chest. Apparently staying home with three young children, keeping up a house and seventeen acres, and volunteering in three different capacities through the elementary school and church is “time off.”

Now my days begin at six in the morning, when I race through the shower and drag a comb through my hair before hitting the kitchen to make the coffee and prepare a breakfast for the family before my husband leaves for his office. Inevitably at least one of my children is awake now, either screaming through the baby monitor for my attention or standing in my bathroom whining for breakfast. Yanking on my clothes, I head upstairs to change two diapers and clothe the younger two, simultaneously encouraging the older one to make his bed and brush his teeth. Back down the stairs to feed everyone, and of course, clean up the Cheerios scattered on the floor and the juice spilled across the table.

Now it’s play time, more accurately four hours spent entertaining and educating and keeping the peace until lunch time, and heaven forbid we abuse the television or I’d fall into the category of Bad Mother. Four hours of play, random household chores, errands and weekly enrichment classes at the YMCA for the oldest while I chase the younger two through the hallways until I can stuff everybody back into their car seats and drive them home. Don’t even get me started on the grocery shopping or the weekly trip to the public library.

Lunch. Before my “time off”, I had thirty-five minutes to eat and socialize. Now I have to make the lunch (still keeping the peace), administer the lunch, clean up the lunch and in between scooping up macaroni and cheese and getting more napkins, feed myself. No gossiping during this lunch hour, it’s either order them around (“Drink your milk”) or answer their questions (“No honey, that robot toy on Arthur is pretend, we can’t really buy you one someday”).

Then pile them into the stroller after putting on the outdoor gear and head the oldest off to school for the afternoon. Just getting four jackets and a backpack on the right bodies is a ten-minute task. Back across the field after depositing the oldest for three hours and get the younger two down for their naps. One to two hours of quiet await me, but does this stay-at-home-mom get a coffee break? Only if I can drink it and run a vaccum, iron, refill the washing machine, unload the dishwasher, make out the grocery list and prepare dinner. Time to dust, scrub a toilet, mop a floor. Oh I know, “working moms” have to do all this stuff too, only on their “time off.” I want to point out that their homes are usually vacant all day long, whilst I have mine full of people most of the day, compounding the mess and the amount of time they have to destroy their surroundings.

Ah, the sound of the baby monitor squawking in my ear means it’s time to charge back up the stairs and gather them into my arms for some cuddles, stories, a snack and new diapers. A half hour remains until we have to return to the school for the oldest. In that time the middle one will poop, strip off his own diaper, and smash the stinky pile into the carpet. Clean, clean, clean.

Retrieve the oldest, settle them into another activity, check the backpack for important messages from the school, and switch on PBS Kids. Prepare dinner. Clean up the snack, set the table and occupy the six little hands (that’s thirty fingers, my friends) until the husband returns home at the end of the day. Eat, clean up, scrape spaghetti off the wall by the booster seat, round up the first two for bath time. Then story time, bed time and get the oldest one settled in for the night too. Oh look, it’s only eight o’clock, plenty of time to watch television while I sort and fold laundry, check my e-mail and skim the newspaper headlines.

By nine-thirty I lay in bed, flat on my back, exhausted. I have approximately four hours until the youngest wakes up wanting to be fed. I guess this must be my “time off.” Snore.

To my chagrin, no one views my “time off” like I do. Our government is quick to view my current labors as “time off,” no stipend or tax credit exists for the stay-at-home-mom. It doesn’t matter that my contribution to society (raising good little citizens in a loving home, the sort of thing a Republican administration touting family values should adore) has value. I’m told “these years are priceless.” So that’s why no one is willing to put a dollar value on my job. I see.

My friends who work (the Working Mothers, a term I loathe because of the obvious implications) eyeball my life enviously, never mind that their work allows some sort of extrinsic affirmation and reward (paycheck, promotion, the appreciation of customers and co-workers). I am to remain content knowing I can afford this “time off” to enjoy motherhood, unlike those who have to work. Let’s get honest here, it’s a trade off between the taxes and the childcare costs, most of my friends don’t have to work.

My husband points out that he does his share, doesn’t he? He brings home the paycheck, isn’t that enough? Magazines insist I don’t do enough (I should add a daily thirty-minute work out, shimmery eyeshadow and a new fall decorating scheme in my home). On television, all the children disappear when it’s inconvenient to have them around. Nearly every one of my friends has a parent who takes their children for one night or one day a week, providing guilt-free and cash-free babysitting. My children’s grandparents live in another state, I have to beg my husband to come home for an hour every six months so I can visit my dentist.

I do believe that when this “time off” ends in four years I will have more time than I’ll know what to do with. And when the youngest starts school I will shamelessly declare to anyone ignorant enough to ask, “No, I’m taking some TIME OFF now that they’re in school all day. After five years of unpaid, twenty-four hour a day on call duty with no vacations or insurance benefits, I earned it.”

Disclaimer: The day described above does not account for paranormal events such as sick or teething children, toilet training or foul weather (a usual event in Northeastern Wisconsin).