I've joined SAHM's club PDF Print E-mail
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    The first time she called me “Miss Johnnie,” I didn’t flinch.
    Then it happened again. And again. And a few times more.
    I loved my daughter’s preschool teacher as much as she did, but when my 3-year-old continued to call me by her teacher’s name, something deep inside me stirred.
   Was it jealousy? Or maybe mom guilt? Whatever it was, it took root.
   We had longer goodbyes at day care each morning.
   She got more “just because” gifts (or, “just because Mommy and Daddy feel guilty for leaving you at day care” trinkets).
   And I began to calculate how much time she spent at school versus our waking moments together.
   The way I figured, day care had her for about 45 hours per week, and I got around 40. Not a huge margin, but it was enough to nag at me.
   Three years, two more daughters, one stepson and a large daycare bill later, my husband and I took a leap of faith and declared that enough was enough: I would quit my job and join the legion of other stay-at-home moms.

Where there’s a plan ...
     When I was a child, nearly all the moms on my block worked outside the home, including my own. They made it look easy to juggle a career and kids, so I knew I would do the same when it was my turn. Plus, that’s why their generation struggled for more than 30 years: so that women like me could continue to work and break the glass ceilings of the corporate world.
     But not all of us are doing that. In 2005, there were nearly 11 million stay-at-home moms in the U.S., and there has been a slow increase in just the past five years, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics.
     I don’t know about the rest, but ours wasn’t an easy decision. My husband and I had lots of questions: How would we pay our bills? What about my career? Did I have the patience to do this full time? Would the kids really benefit from my being at home? Was this the right decision for our family?
     Being a stay-at-home mom was the furthest thing from my mind after our first daughter was born more than six years
ago; I simply didn’t want to do it. I couldn’t wait to get back to work at the end of my maternity leave. I’d bonded with my child, but I was frazzled after being with a newborn all day. Besides, I’d been working since college, focused on building a career. I wasn’t ready to give that up.
     By the time daughter No. 2 arrived a couple of years later, though, my job had grown more demanding, and so had my
husband’s. When issues arose, such as calls from school to pick up a sick child, there seemed to be a tug-of-war over
which of us was more needed at work.
     And our family kept growing. My husband’s son from a previous marriage came to live with us full time about four
years ago, when he was 13. Then we had the last of our three daughters a little more than a year ago.
     I began to feel worn down physically, mentally and spiritually. I had: a house that I barely had time to decorate or keep clean, laundry to do, a Sunday school class to teach, PTA meetings to attend, dinners to make, noses to wipe, boo-boos to kiss, diapers to change, homework to check, three heads of hair to comb and four outfits to coordinate daily.
     Plus, I had to water the plants, keep the family calendar, make doctor and dental appointments, and remember when
it was time to change the air filters on the A/C. (Otherwise, all of our allergies would be unbearable.)
     And what about my poor, sweet husband, who always seemed to be last on my list?
     For that matter, what about me?
     It was time to stop the madness.
     It was time to drop the “I can do it all” attitude and embrace the fact that I really didn’t WANT to do it all.
     And it was time to slow down and enjoy the things I’d either missed or overlooked with our children — like being there when our youngest took her first steps.
     So we realigned our priorities and made our motto “family first.”
     First, I had to do some serious soul-searching about giving up my career. As a journalist, I realized I could still occasionally work from home in my spare time. (Spare time — ha!) That way, I wouldn’t drop completely out of the professional world, I could earn some extra cash and still retain a sense of independence.
     My husband got behind the idea fairly easily: His mother had stayed home with him and his siblings, so the concept
wasn’t foreign to him.
     What really helped sell it, though, was this: For what we were paying day care, we could have paid the mortgage on
another house.
     Still, we didn’t jump right into it. I planned to work full time for a whole year so that we could pay off some bills,
and we vowed not to create any new debt. (See accompanying story.) Only then, at the end of last year, did I leave
my 9-to-5.

Bonbons? Puh-leeze.
     So did we all live happily ever after? We’re working on it. Before I joined the SAHM’s club, I used to think stay-at-home moms sat around in their jammies all day, eating bon-bons and watching Oprah.
     But I’ve been home for almost three months and so far there have been no bon-bons — just Nilla Wafers. And while I might spend the entire day in my PJs, I’ve only seen Oprah once or twice.
     As far as I’m concerned, “SAHM” stands for “Somebody, Anybody, Help Me!” because this is serious work.
I thought I was at breakneck speed when I was working a 9-to-5. That was a snail’s pace compared with the way I’m moving now.
     Now, I’m getting two school-agers out of the house on time; sweeping up Goldfish crumbs several times daily; keeping the 14-month-old away from the stairs; answering the 4-year-old’s questions about why dogs aren’t purple; finding fun, educational things for them to do rather than letting them watch TV; praying that they nap at the same time, so that maybe I can take one, too; fetching the kindergartner after school; picking up my stepson from art-club meetings; cooking dinner while the baby plays peek-a-boo under my legs; keeping up with freelance work, such as this story (it’s a miracle it ever got finished). And, of course, I’ve still got those three heads of hair to comb — well, when we actually leave the house.
     The biggest adjustment has been not having a daily goal. When I was on the job, I knew what I had to get done by the end of the workday. Most days, I feel so scatterbrained that it’s hard to see what I’ve accomplished, although I have managed to organize the “plastics” cabinet in my kitchen.
     Now, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss work. I loved shooting the breeze with my colleagues about Lost and the Dallas Mavericks; seeing my husband (he conveniently worked just down the hall); and running with my Boot Camp buddies at the downtown Y.
     But — although Radio Disney and the Doodlebops are starting to work my nerves — I love, love, love being at home.
     I can actually read my entire newspaper in the morning.
     I have time for kickboxing twice a week.
     I can enjoy the breakfasts my husband whips up, rather than gobbling them up nearly whole on the way out the door.
     And I don’t have to insist that my kids give me a quick kiss and a fast hug so that Mommy won’t be late for work.
     Overall, it just seems that my whole family is happier since I’ve been home. For starters, my husband says I’m much calmer, and I don’t yell as much.
     We smile more. We talk more. My stepson likes not having to wait too late for dinner. My kindergartner is glad she’s not at school “till it’s dark outside.” My 4-year-old misses her friends at school but still says she’d rather be home with me. The baby? Well, she’s always been a mama’s girl.
     And guess what? Nobody slips up and calls me “Miss Johnnie.” Around here, I’m just “Mommy.”