It’s the year 2013, yet somehow, women’s lib forgot to notify the rest of the world that being a mother is a job.
Do I work outside of the home? Why yes indeedy, I do. Do I make a paycheck week to week? Yes. Is it a large paycheck? No. For now. No Jewish girl wants to live on a small paycheck forever, I assure you that. I enjoy what I do, and like working, but what about my most important job.
The one job that I cannot list on my resume.
I mean my boss, my 32 inch daughter, never hands me over a paycheck, so maybe it isn’t really–gasp–work.
Instead, I get paid in the following denominations:
declarations of “No, Mommy. I sit by self. You sit there Mommy.”
Letters, shapes, colors, and number recognition.
The triumphant sound of her counting in French.
Saying her letter sounds while playing with magnetic letters.
Countless re-runs of “You’re a good sport Charlie Brown.”
It won’t pay the mortgage, but how much does a healthy, well-adjusted child equal?
I wish men, and strangers would value child-rearing the way I do. I wish I didn’t have to hear how “easy” it is all day long.
Of course, it’s fun sometimes, and even easy. However, no one seems to remember the sleepless nights. My sore boobs. The shouts for toys in the middle of the store. The trips to the pediatrician. The tears. The temper tantrums because apparently asking your child to wear a sweater is akin to murdering Snoopy.
I don’t have a big paycheck. I only work part-time. I write, I teach, and generally, make people laugh.
What a friggin shock it is to be in my thirties and discover that even in the millennium, people do not value what they feel is woman’s work. Do you think it is fun to do laundry or food shopping while chasing after a pint-sized Castro? It certainly doesn’t give me an orgasm, but I would just love for the people telling me how easy it is, to do what I do, as well as I do.
If my child goes to bed happy tonight, I have done my job.
If my child goes to bed cranky tonight, guess what? I still have done my job. I probably didn’t give in to one of her crazy notions. I stood my ground and taught her that sometimes, you don’t get what you want, but you will survive.
For all you people thinking that your day job is somehow more work or more important than raising my child–or any child for that matter, I ask you this?
Can you be happy all day long, and emotionally balanced, even if you are having the shittiest day and the world is about to end?
Can you teach a child to read, write, sing, play, and laugh?
Can you nurse a baby while taking a shit, and trying to brush your teeth?
Can you do the laundry while potty training a child, and putting on your makeup for your night job?
if the answer is yes, then you are potentially qualified to do my job.
If the answer is no, then I offer you this:
Your job is way easier than mine pal. I will gladly trade you my vagina for your penis and get to be you.
Or maybe I wouldn’t because then I wouldn’t get to do nothing all day, while masturbating and eating bon-bons, and have so much fun raising the best, sweetest, and bossiest two year-old ever.