I’m seven years old, begging my mom to stay just a little bit longer. We’re sitting in the car in my elementary school parking lot. It’s just after my second grade Halloween party, and I’m wearing my favorite orange-and-black socks thatsqueaks when you squeeze the pumpkin pom-poms on the ankle.
“But Mooommm,” I whine. “Why can’t you stay longer? Brittney’s mom is staying the whole day!”
I remember my mom giving me a patient smile.
“Because I have to wooorrrk,” she said back at me, mimicking my whine. She brushed my hair back, gave me a kiss on the head, and told me I’d better go join my classmates for the rest of the party.
I did as she told and hopped out of the car (but not before giving her one last pleading look) and walked slowly back into my classroom. She waited until I was at the door before waving and driving off.
Instances like these were frequent growing up. Mom couldn’t chaperone my school field trips because of work. Mom couldn’t stay home with me when I was sick because of work. Mom couldn’t help make the costumes for the school play because of work. Although she never missed a major piano recital and contributed on several occasions to pulling all-nighters to finish the science fair projects I procrastinated on, my mother working was something I grew to resent. I looked at my friends’ moms, and they were different. They were home when we got back from school, ready to give hugs and juice boxes. They baked. They dressed up with heels and lipstick. They organized my Girl Scout meetings. Work was never a barrier between them and their kids.
I turned up my nose at my mom having to work. My friends’ moms were stay-at-home moms. Their lives seemed so much more affluent and glamorous than mine. Those moms had all the time in the world to devote to their children’s soccer games and after-school snacks. In addition, they had all the time in the world to spend on themselves. They renovated their giant suburban dwellings; they perfectly coiffed their hair; they went out to lunch with other stay-at-home moms; and they spent endless hours shopping at William Sonoma for a nice spice rack to offset the new kitchen tiling. My mother was the exact opposite in my mind. She dressed simply, sans make-up and perfectly coiffed hair-do. She picked up dog poop and took out the trash. She laughed when I asked her why Sarah’s mom rented out a stretch limo for Sarah’s birthday pool party and why I only had a stupid birthday cake in the backyard for mine? My mother was practical, simple and unpretentious about life. She rolled her eyes at the unnecessary extravagances that I pined for. And above all, she was a working mom, a rarity in my generation’s PTA moms that spent their leisure volunteering and looking like trophy wives.
I look back now and admit my childhood was far from dysfunctional. I had two loving parents, two younger siblings, a dog, a nice suburban house and no traumatic experiences that would necessitate therapy. I was a good student, involved with school and sports and had the most typical upbringing a suburban kid could have. It’s only now that I appreciate just how much my mother did.
No, she didn’t bake cookies or lead all my Girl Scout expeditions, but she taught me the importance of hard work and how hard work takes some sacrifices. My mother had me at 36 and easily could’ve not had kids and lived a comfortable life with my dad. Before we moved from San Francisco to Oregon, she used to have one of those glamorous corporate banking jobs. She used to dress up in heels, wear perfume, travel by weekends and shop for designer suits. When raising three kids became too demanding, she quit and took an accounting job. Though overqualified for the position, it fit more easily into our soccer game and piano recital schedules. She never reminisced about the lifestyle she lost due to motherhood. She never complained about the workload that comes with family and a full-time job. She never pointed out that my college savings were her dream European vacation. Sure, there were times where she lost her patience, sighing and looking down on me for berating our less-than-the-Jones’ lifestyle.
But from my mother, I learned something important that few other kids learn. I learned about the integrity of providing for oneself instead of depending on others. I learned that having a career while balancing a family is probably more admirable than staying at home with nothing better to do than worry about the perfectly manicured lawn or finding my kids that special je ne sais quoi French tutor. On my shoulders, she placed high ambitions for my life; I could do anything, as long as I wasn’t content to do nothing.
21 years later, I’m proud to call my mom my mom. She has given me strength, courage and the will to succeed in all aspects of life. Her sacrifices have been to my benefit, and I’m eternally thankful for it. She may not have always been present, but her presence has always been around me.