I stay at home now, with my kids, retired from my chosen profession at twenty-six, and I write while my husband goes out and earns the bucks for us. It’s like a Fifities throwback here, without the pearl necklaces (something I’m ITCHING to bring back) and candied hams.

The Daver works in finance, which is a somewhat nebulous term that people typically respond to with a harsh intake of air and a drawn out, “Oooooh.” Since the Crash of Aught Eight, people tend to have a different perception of “working in finance.”

I don’t understand a single thing that The Daver does, and when he tries to explain, my eyes glaze over the same way that his do when I talk about my latest email from my agents. But, for all intents and purposes, what “working in finance” means to me is that he’s almost never home. A seventy-hour workweek is a relatively easy week for him.

Add to that an hour-plus commute each way and you can easily call me a single mother during the week. Oh, don’t worry, I’m not up on the cross about it or anything; I’m sure some new mother needs the wood. To me, it’s just the way it is.

And while I did choose to have my three children, I didn’t expect that I would have to lose myself in the process to be successful.

Certainly, I am Ben’s mother, Amelia’s mother, Alex’s mother, Dave’s wife, daughter of Ann and Joe. Sister of Aaron. But I’m more than the sum of who I am to other people. This includes my children.

Sure, I suppose, I could go back to work to reclaim the Becky I was, now lost among piles of diapers and educational toys, but that wouldn’t solve anything. I’m fortunate that I’m able to stay home with my children, I’m not going to deny that, but, like any other choice, there are consequences.

KEEP READING>>>>

(Original post by Becky Harks)

(photo by stock.xchng)