Winter 2009 Issue
My name is Tenley French and I am a Stay-At-Home Mom. I am twenty months into my
full-time SAH status, and it has taken me almost that long to openly volunteer that
information to those with whom I am not well acquainted. In the beginning, I
desperately hoped that people wouldn’t ask. It was pathetic. I would completely
change the course of a conversation, stay clear of personal survey or financial
applications and even avoid old acquaintances and co-workers to prevent being
posed the dreaded question: “What do you do?”
After I realized that complete avoidance was impossible, I experimented with alternative
descriptions. “I’m working at home now” backfired when followed by further inquiries of
the nature of my work. I started picturing the multitude of paying jobs that ARE
accomplished from home. It felt misleading to put myself in that category – my days
are usually monetary sinks.
Another answer I used for a while took the form of, “Well, in my previous life I….and
now I’m at home.” But, that suggested some serious insecurity. They weren’t asking
what I did in the past. I may as well have mentioned my graduate school GPA to
further demonstrate my need to compensate. My final attempt – humble downplay –
was simply, “I’m just a Mom.” But that was misleading from every angle imaginable.
Again, it didn’t accurately answer the question, as many women are successful both as
a mother and in their job. Also, it was a disparaging something I choose to do. The
word ‘just’ caused me to cringe, but I found myself resorting to it again and
again.
I reached the zenith of my identity issue during an aerobic class at my neighborhood
gym. I raised my hand when the instructor asked if anyone was new and she
responded by asking IN FRONT OF EVERYONE, “Great, and what do you do for a
living?” I blushed – visibly – stammered, looked at the tennis shoes in standing in front
of me and mumbled something to the nature of, “Um…I’m a Mom…at home.” I found
myself wishing she had asked me only three months prior, when I still worked. I was
shocked by my own degree of embarrassment. When had this choice, this
opportunity, evolved into a shameful confession?
Twenty months ago I was working as a scientist for a small bio-tech company. I was
listed as the Primary Investigator on the federal grant that provided our funding. I had
a laptop, an office, multiple scientific publications and three years of post-graduate
experience in a 4th story laboratory with an unobstructed view of Long’s Peak. Alright,
so the laptop belonged to the company and the windowless office was shared with an
enormous instrument and a graduate student, but the view from my lab bench was
truly breathtaking. Having just one child, I worked part-time while my daughter was in
day care. Aside from the occasional remorse at handing over my baby to her teachers
twice a week, it was an ideal arrangement.
Almost exactly when my second daughter entered the world, my company’s federal
grant expired. I looked on the timing as a ‘sign’ to follow through with my and my
husband’s original intentions to have one of us stay home with the kids. I turned in my
pipette for a baby monitor, and replaced my lab coat with chenille sweats. On a good
day, I relish the time spent with my girls: giggling, teaching them to say and read
words, watching them learn how to walk, run and attempt the yoga moves they see me
do. On a bad day, I grumble, fantasize about going back to work, and refer to myself
as a professional wiper. I wipe faces, bottoms, floors, counter-tops, clothes, car-seats
and the memory of all prior accomplishment.
Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy what I do. I am a damn fine wiper and I’ve even managed
to delegate a few wiping roles to my three-year-old daughter. The problem lies with
my embarrassment and hesitancy to admit as much. The shame that creeps into my
voice when I describe my profession makes me indignant. Society says it values that
sacrifice, but I, for one, don’t feel it. When people respond to my confession of staying
home with “Good for you,” I extrapolate their thoughts with, ‘but not for me.’
Have I succumbed to the same misogyny that permeates our society? Does the
problem originate with my own insecurity? Should I list my years as a “home-maker”
on my curriculum vitae, or will I be laughed out of the job interview? Should I stop
whining and start appreciating an opportunity that millions of women world-wide
wouldn’t take for granted? YES.
The whole issue stirs up something simmering and angry and intangible inside me. I
want to stand on my counter-tops, with the perfect not-too-scratchy but suitably-stain-
scourging dish rag in arms and shout, “Wipers, Unite!” Because, if all of the Mothers –
no matter what we call ourselves and regardless of our vocational status – can take a
greater sense of pride in ourselves, then it would really help when we have to respond
to that worthless question that in no way reflects WHO we are and HOW we are
capable. Let’s start a movement to encourage each other, challenge each other, and
especially hire each other when and if we decide to resume our paying careers. Let’s
take pride in our answers, so that the next time I’m in the gym and someone asks me
what I do, I can drop to the floor, gun out twenty push-ups and then innocently ask, “Is
that what you meant, or do you want to see what I’m really capable of?”
Tenley works as a homemaking / youth-rearing engineer, now with a third child under
her tutelage. In her free time (and sometimes during the forced “breaks” of her
working hours), she enjoys listening to talk radio, planning exercise workouts that
rarely materialize, reading scientific journals, managing her music collection on iTunes,
engaging in fragmented and run-on conversations with colleagues in her field (i.e.
fellow moms) and staring blankly into space. She is always game for philosophical
musings on both the delights and gross injustices of her chosen occupation, especially
over an Americano or a glass of red wine.
