Meaningful time

When we first had our kids, we were one of the lucky couples. You know, one of the couples that got to choose if I went back to work or not. So many don’t have that choice as their mortgage (or some other financial necessity) depends on both salaries.  I chose to stay home.

Part of my reasoning was a simple financial equation. My salary, once we accounted for daycare, would not improve our standard of living enough to justify the havoc it would wreak on our schedule. The other part was emotional, though. I wanted to be around for the initial years of my kids’ lives. I wanted to witness as many firsts as possible and bearing witness to such events was more important than a daily professional life. And for what it’s worth, I feel insanely grateful for living in a generation where I am granted such choices. Past generations didn’t always have that luxury.

But here’s the thing. All day, every day with the kids is a lot of time. A LOT OF TIME.  Add into the mix the need to food shop, run errands, make meals, do dishes, clean up crazy messes and handle less than cooperative kids in public and provide some kind of play time for the kids… well… it’s not always pretty. It’s a job. A huge job. Ask any stay at home parent how it feels to “not work”. They’ll tell you about all the bonbons they have time to eat.

                                                

And as much as I love my kids, and wouldn’t trade my time with them for the world, sometimes I just want some quiet. And that is when I send them to the basement.

I know that sounds terrible, but it’s not. Our basement is kid heaven. It has a million toys and a big TV for watching their favorite DVD’s. They love it down there. We even moved the light switch so that they can reach it and go downstairs all by themselves. For the most part, they play very well together down there and consider it to be their place.

But here’s the problem. Recently, as the kids get more independent and spend more time playing on their own, I have mixed feelings. Part of me is ecstatic. Ok, most of me is ecstatic. The amount of time they play on their own allows me to get things done without kids around my ankles. I finish laundry, get dishes done and even check my email sometimes.  But the other part of me suffers from a certain amount of guilt. I wonder if I am spending enough quality time with the kids. Am I reading to them enough? Doing enough puzzles with them? Do I hug them enough?

Ironically, I come from a background in education, where a self sufficient and resilient child is valued like gold. Logically, that self sufficient child must have been given the space to grow at some point and their primary caretakers had to have backed off. Let them do their own thing and figure things out on their own. Stopped hugging for every little thing and allow the kid to adapt to a little discomfort. At least to a certain extent.

We went to a friends’ house the other day. They have a daughter, 9 years old, and a total sweetheart. When we arrived, the kids dove into the basement and the “big girl” watched them. For more than 2 hours. The adults sat outside, eating and chatting, while the kids played happily inside. It was awesome. I actually finished a series of conversations. Go figure.  And I loved it. Without reservations.

So I guess the guilt I feel is really just part of the normal “mother’s guilt” package, because every time my kids really need something they come running or call for me. They know exactly how to be comforted when they need to be.

So, ok. Fine. I’ll shut up and enjoy my free time. Thanks for reminding me.