Past Seema Writes to Us

photo by Marya Hay

The other week at art we were talking about the importance of writing when we are up as much as when we are down.   Letters from a past self who can remind us of what was good when things seem low. The opportunity to look back and survey our lives through our journals and not just find a series of “I hate the world” scrawlings. Then I came home and found this file in my computer. I don’t remember writing it. In some ways, I can barely remember living that life.  And I know it wasn’t as rosy as this essay makes it seem.  But still, all of this below is true.  Look, past Seema had it pretty good.

What’s not so bad about the situation you are in right now?  What are the secret perks?

I believe this below is Seema circa 2009 writing to us.

I am a stay at home mom.  The common response I get to this is, “Oh that’s the hardest job in the world!  It’s so demanding and important!”  Sometimes it’s patronizing, but I think more often it’s genuine pity.  Regardless, I nod and smile and bask in an image of my own maternal sainthood.  Women who work full time are the most supportive and awestruck.  But the truth is (and I feel like a traitor admitting this), it’s not the hardest job in the world.  It’s not even a hard job.  The parts of it that are hard—the immense responsibility, the weekends lost to baseball, the lack of sleep, the toy car and Lego injuries—are the universal ‘mom’ parts.  The stay at home part is the gravy.

The stay at home part means that I never wait more than a few minutes in line at the grocery store.  On our weekday outings to deserted shopping centers and malls, my little companion and I get the best service and the best parking spots.  First, we drop my older son to school in our pajamas and come home to drink ‘coffee’ in bed—his is milk with a tablespoon of my coffee in it.  I read a book or catch up on on-line gossip, I am addicted to Fashion Police photographs—but don’t judge me: we listen to Morning Edition on NPR in the car.  He thumbs through his brother’s Pokemon cards.  Then we do whatever I want to do.  A benevolent dictator, I try to be fair.  I include cutting things with scissors and playground time on most days’ agendas (it doesn’t hurt that my loyal subject is prone to revolt).  But the day goes along according to my plan.  We run my errands, go to see museum exhibits that interest me, borrow picture books from the library on subjects I think we should explore.

Officially, I am a careful parent—my kids have strict media rules and eat their vegetables.  But being the boss, I am entitled to bend the rules.  If I’ve had a late night, or it’s a rainy day or they’re plain driving me nuts, I pop a DVD into my laptop, sling my arm across the kids (so that I’ll wake up if they move) and take a nap.  If there are too many dishes in the sink and I can’t bear to cook, we have a box of Macaroni and Cheese for dinner and, if the boss is in the mood, there are pieces of chocolate all around afterward.

This isn’t the easiest job I’ve held—I was once paid $15 an hour to remove staples from documents before they were scanned.  That was an easy job.   Since the births of my children, I have worked on and off: as a recruiter, in sales, starting my own little businesses.  But every time I quit a job or take in my shingle, I feel a huge sense of relief, of owning my time, of being responsible solely for the basic needs of small people who generally do as I say.  Of course, the reason that I grow restless and hang the shingle out to begin with is the lack of pay, time off and recognition.  But this is the case for just about any boss.  The boss handles all the worry, the boss steers the ship, and the boss takes the blame.

As far as jobs go, I’d be hard pressed to find one that is this flexible and has this level of security—by the time my success (or failure) can be gauged, it’ll be too late to hire a more qualified professional to get the job done.  Eventually, I’ll start itching to do something else.  But it won’t be because the job’s too hard.  It’ll be because I’ve worn a hole in the seat of my pajama pants and that looks like a sign.