Not too long ago, I spent a few days on vacation with an old friend. We met as camp counselors in college and have remained close over the years, even though our lives have taken very different paths. While I’ve been raising kids, she’s been working around the globe and amassing graduate degrees. She and her husband now live in Alaska, where she recently completed her Ph.D. in nursing.
During our time together, we talked about everything under the sun. She asked me how my writing was going, and the honest answer was “sporadically.” I explained that it was okay, that I’d realized over the years that our family works the best when Nick goes to work and I take care of pretty much everything else. I recognize the rare privilege I have to be in the situation where it’s optional for me to work for pay, and I (mostly) really appreciate it.
I told her one of the things I do struggle with is the inevitable question when meeting new people: “So, what do you do?”
I can craft my answer in a way that sounds like I spend the majority of my days at the computer, typing away on this project or that. And sometimes that is the case. But most of my time, my primary job is … hard to quantify. I think of myself as the Chief Operating Officer of Cantrell, Inc., which also sounds a lot better in the 21st century than describing myself as a “housewife.” Although the end result is largely the same. I make sure all the things get done to keep everyone and everything moving forward.
My friend listened to all this, then told me that she also felt awkward when talking to stay-at-home parents because she never knew what the appropriate follow-up should be. It’s easy enough to ask questions about someone’s career; it’s harder to know how to respond to, “I stay home.”
“What do you wish people would say to you?” she asked.
I thought about that for a minute. It’s hard to tell someone that I don’t have a career without feeling like I’m also saying that I’m not capable of having a career, or that I’m not determined enough to have both a career and a family.
“I think the best response I could imagine would be, ‘What a gift to your family.’”
Before I expand on this, I cannot overemphasize how much I realize the privileges implicit in my situation. My marriage has lasted. My husband makes enough money to support our family without my contributions. I know that there are lots of people who would love to be in my shoes, but it’s simply not an option for them.
Taking all that into account, I still feel like this arrangement really is a gift to my family. There’s not much glory in being the one who always makes sure there’s dinner on the table, the sprinklers get blown out, the dog has his shots, and all the forms are signed and the deadlines are met. Choosing to “stay home” is a gift in the same sense that a six-pack of socks is a gift; not exciting or sparkly, but my family would really notice the difference in life without socks.
It has taken me a long time to be mostly okay with the idea that two things can be true at the same time: I am a smart, highly motivated person who gets a lot done. I don’t have a regular bill-paying job. I have to be at peace with the fact that someone who doesn’t know me well can instantly understand the second truth (no job), but may never comprehend the first. I’ve spent a long time learning to worry less about how I’m perceived, not rushing to justify my choices or to make my daily life sound more traditionally high-achieving than it is.
My non-career also gives me the flexibility to donate a lot of my time. I’ve been able to run the PTO, coach the volleyball and basketball teams, serve on the nonprofit board, campaign for the school levy, help out at the church, and generally be able to say “yes” (within reason and drawing healthy boundaries and all that) when someone or something needs an able body. I’m thankful that my friends and neighbors are teachers and physical therapists and doctors and business owners, and I’m also thankful that I can fill some of the volunteer gaps that their busy schedules don’t always permit. If my years of struggling with these questions of identity and perception have garnered any insight, it is this: Time is the most valuable thing we have to offer, and a paycheck is not the only measure of using it well.
Katie Cantrell is a Kalispell-based writer and mom of three.