matril

Today was the first day of school for Ryan and Emma. Ryan's starting third-grade at the school down the street, so I'll be walking him down there every day just like I did for him and Emma last year. My tiny little daughter, however, is starting middle school.
( Read more... )

Once more I find myself at a sort of philosophical crossroads. I come here often. Perhaps I engage in too much thinking and not enough doing. But, as proven by how I voluntarily dedicated my college career to hours and hours of reading and overthinking literature, thinking is my favorite kind of doing.

What triggered this particular trip to the Overthinking Crossroads is an email from the mother of my one and only piano student (unless you count Emma and Ryan). Her son just isn't enjoying it at all; it's a huge pain to get him to practice, and he's going to have to take a break. I wished them well and said I'd welcome him back any time. Meanwhile, I'm spiraling into existential gloom. Since I started teaching four or so years ago, I've had two or three students, but I always sort of assumed that once the momentum got going, I'd get more. Instead, some have moved away, some have changed teachers, and one - my lovely adult student of three years - got a new obligation making her too busy for lessons. I thought it would change this fall when a piano teacher friend was moving away and offered to refer some of her students to me. I had five or six contact me and come for a trial lesson. None of them got back to me.

It's kind of hard not to assume there was something decidedly undazzling about my teaching.

I originally planned to be an English teacher. It was a crowded program at my college, so you had to send in an application package, including a video of a pretend lesson. When I applied, they informed me that the video concerned them, since I didn't seem to have much of a "presence" and they feared I wouldn't be able to maintain control of a classroom. It's possible that, as my last name was at the end of the alphabet, they didn't have any more slots when they got to me and had to think of some excuse for rejecting me. I mean, isn't it the whole purpose of such a program to teach its students how to teach, how to have a presence, how to maintain control of a classroom? All I knew, however, was that I had been measured and found wanting in my intended profession.

I toyed with the idea of going into library science for a graduate program, as working among the quiet shelves of a library seemed ideal for a mousy person with no presence. But after I received my regular old English degree, I just didn't feel a burning need to pursue any further education right then.

I had my children. I became, as they call it, a full-time mother. Though let's be honest: there's no such thing as a part-time mother. These are the sort of labels they use to sort everybody into tidy boxes so we know who's a Good mother and who's not...or who's fulfilled and who's repressed....or who's Like Me and Not Like Me. Blah. It was during my early days of stay-at-home motherhood, interestingly, that I became more and more engaged by the concepts of feminism, at least the sort of feminism that speaks to me. Because even though I was doing what I had chosen, and was very happy to do it, I still wished there were more resources to navigate the rocky transition from full-time student to...well, I know I need to take care of my baby, and that's my number one priority, but honestly it doesn't take up every minute of every hour, and what else should I do with my time that's worthy and fulfilling and useful, and how do I stay sane without much human contact beyond a gurgling infant, and am I selfish or selfless or some nebulous space in between? The specific details of my situation have shifted over the years - Luke being autistic, kids starting school, moving to bigger houses - but I still have that basic struggle, trying to navigate a place that no one's ever really mapped out.

I'm still not sure what I should do with myself.

The fact that I have a choice in the matter is, I know, a tremendous luxury. There are so many women who have no spare time to worry about the meaning of their day-to-day existence, because they're fully occupied with working long, lousy jobs to scrape together just enough money for necessities, worrying how they'll feed their children or keep a roof over their head...I know, I'm a place of privilege to even be pondering these things.

Having said that, here's my conundrum. As far as I can see, there are several motivators that get us to do things. One of them is necessity. I don't wash the dishes because I enjoy it; I do it because we need clean dishes. Work is a big part of this category, since, as most of us can't make, grow or build the entirety of our clothing, food, shelter and other needs, we have to earn money for them.

Another motivator is enjoyment. Hobbies go here, though people generally like to find work that at least sometimes falls in this category as well. If you have to do something to earn money, you might as well look for something you can enjoy too, right?

And then there's a vague "good for you" motivator. More on that in a moment.

So, what do I do by necessity? Housework, as mentioned above. I enjoy having a clean house but that doesn't mean I have much delight in the process. Caring for my children, obviously, though when they're at school there's not much to be done there. Earning a wage? I was bringing in a tiny fraction of our income with that piano lesson, but now...nope. Could we use the extra money? Of course we could. My husband's a schoolteacher. We bought pretty much the cheapest house we could move into, because anything bigger would have required a dual income. But we're getting by with just one. Barely.

Enjoyment. I have quite a few hobbies, and I feel plenty lucky that I have time to indulge in them. I might have lost all my piano students except my own kids, but I play the piano for myself all the time. I knit (working on my Halloween costume right now, as it happens). And yes, I do sometimes just watch TV shows and movies. Most of all, I write. Every day I spend at least an hour on something involving my writing.

But this leaves the "good for you." What do I mean by that? Well...

How do you measure your worth? Ideally, it should be absolute as a human being. And, as I believe, a child of God. Nothing you do or don't do should alter that sense of absolute worth. And yet I do judge myself as more or less worthy based on rather arbitrary criteria. One of those is by my career, or rather, my non-existent one. I don't make any money. I don't contribute a penny to our household. Sure, neither do my children, but they're children. Much as I try to silence this internal criticism, the voice keeps reminding me, You're basically a leech. No one has ever accused me of this. It's all self-directed. My husband is completely and utterly supportive of whatever I choose, as long as our family remains our priority. It's just my own issues.

And I think rather drearily, well, I don't have tons of options when it comes to making money. Last time I looked for a job, I ended up working at a register at a grocery store. For one miserable year. I was never happier when I quit. And that was when I got my first piano student, so everything seemed like it was working out great. But basing my worthiness on whether I'm earning any money is stupid and a fantastic way to set myself up for failure. I mean, we need to have an income, obviously. It's necessary, but it's not related to my worth.

So maybe it's not about the money; maybe it's about feeling like I'm contributing some good to the world. Volunteering? Getting involved at my kids' schools? This is the "good for you" stuff I'm talking about. Something that provides human contact for my hermit-like existence. Something that has me feeling purposeful and useful. Something that builds my character by stretching me beyond my comfort zone and teaching me new skills.

And here's the thing: that sounds like a perfect nightmare to me.

I like spending the day at home. Alone.

I feel like I shouldn't. I feel like I should be itching to get out and be around people. I feel like I should be longing for a career path, something to define my adult life beyond motherhood; something that makes use of my talents and desires and...ugh, it just sounds exhausting. I don't want it. I believe in fiercely defending the right of any other woman to pursue her dreams and excel in whatever her chosen field, but climbing the corporate ladder or working in a courtroom or leading meetings all day? Not for me.

Lots of guilt here. Am I happily squandering my abilities? I'm no genius, but I'm pretty smart, a hard worker, got good grades throughout high school and college. I don't feel my education was wasted from an abstract standpoint; I like the person it helped me become. But we like to categorize things by their cost - education is expensive, so why am I not using it to make more money? Or at least contribute to the world at large in some measurable way?

Oh, I know motherhood is my big contribution. I'm not diminishing the importance of that in the slightest. I'm glad that I'm available at home if they ever need me during the school day. I know that the time I've put and continue to put into raising them and providing a safe, clean happy home for them is invaluable. It's just...if I have this much free time now, how much more when they're grown and independent, at least Emma and Ryan? Lots of mothers find themselves seeking new careers, or renewing old ones once their children leave home. What do I want?

I know the ideal answer - I want to write novels, and have them published. Day-to-day, I would work from home, quiet and alone and happy. Once in a while I'd go on book signings or whatever, and get some amount of human contact and travel and all that good fun stuff, hopefully just enough to add a little variety to my life without making me miserable. But there is absolutely no way to guarantee that kind of career. And everything else....I don't want it. Even non-fiction freelance writing, or editing, other stuff people have recommended that really should be right up my alley...I've considered pursuing it, but it just doesn't feel right.

I know, I know. I'm really spoiled here. I can sit here, unemployed, and just summarily reject option after option of viable jobs. But every time I consider something, I think, well, what's the motivator? Do we need the income? Yes, but not so urgently I have to take it. Is it something I would enjoy? No. In fact, I'd probably be miserable. Is it good for me? Yech. Like medicine.

So I'd be perfectly happy going on with my simplistic home life, except for the crippling guilt telling me I shouldn't be happy, how dare I enjoy anything so bereft of monetary worth or real value, and what did I go to college for, anyway?

Apparently, for the sole purpose of writing overlong navel-gazing blog posts. Sigh.

As I said before, everything in our lives was affected by Luke's diagnosis, and continues to be. Some of those effects are obvious, like having him in school full time since age three, but there were other, broader changes, rippling outward pretty much indefinitely.

( For instance... )

So it's Autism Awareness month, and we all know what that means for me. Okay, maybe not. I'd like to hope I'm in a little better place this year. Maybe it's because I already got my rant out of the way in January.

The truth is, writing long soul-wrenching rants is very therapeutic for me. While my readers might come away from such a post thinking I'm broken, I actually feel much better after getting it all out in semi-eloquent prose. This month, though, I want to do something more than use LiveJournal as a kind of electronic therapist, by offering what little I can offer regarding this nebulous concept of Autism Awareness. I don't know what it's like to be autistic, and I don't know what it like for every parent of an autistic child. I only know what it's like to be Luke's mother. For whatever that's worth, I'm going to tell you what I know about that, in the form of weekly entries throughout this month. I'm going to be honest and thorough, and even more long-winded that usual. In order to more accurately capture some of the feelings I had over time, I'll include excerpts from my journals. I'll start with the beginning.

( A long, long time ago (well, almost thirteen years) )

I knew this was coming.

( Read more... )

I have too much free time.

This has been a problem since I graduated from college. Luke was about three months old then, and I was eager to do what I'd always planned on doing - devote the bulk of my time to parenting, while any remaining time could be spent on the solitary activities I loved. Reading, writing, jigsaw puzzles, music. I like solitary activities. And that hasn't changed. But it is possible, shockingly, to get too much of a good thing.

Even with a baby, I wasn't as busy as I thought I'd be, because we had to live with my parents for a year while my husband applied to grad schools. I was extremely grateful to my parents for letting us stay with them, but it was rough for all of us. I felt like I'd moved backwards in terms of adult behavior. I had no household of my own. I went from full-time classes to almost no scheduled stuff at all. I have self-disicpline when someone else is setting the deadlines and responsibilities, but it turns out that when it's all up to me, I become very lazy.

Well, then we moved to Massachusetts for grad school, got our own place again, and then I was pregnant with Emma. It got better, with a house of my own to tend to and two children and so on, but in spite of what I'd heard every other mother say, I still had more free time then than I did at any other point in my life (other than, I assume, those few years before I started kindergarten that I don't remember). When Luke started school, there was even more free time. Ryan was born, things were busier, but they all grew and became more independent, and now, in September, they will all be at school all day long.

What in the world am I going to do with myself? And how can I complain about it when everyone else in the world is insanely busy and hates me for complaining about the opposite problem? I've been there; I've been so busy I could barely take a breath, and thought longingly of having just a single day without a packed schedule. My past self would probably hate me too. But here I am.

I do love having ample time for reading, writing, puzzles, music - you can add yarnwork to the list now that I've learned to knit and crochet. I have tons of ideas for writing lately, particularly since I've gotten into a new fandom and churned out buckets of fanfic. I have a novel that, with some revision, might be ready to send out queries for. But even I, an extreme introvert, can only fill so much of the day with solitary activities.

There are the necessities - dishes, laundry, cleaning - that I'll do when I have to but never gleefully. I don't look forward to having everyone else out of the house so I can go and tackle that pile of clutter. Oh, sure, there's enough clutter that I could probably spend several straight days on clearing it out. That sounds perfectly horrifying. I can spend maybe an hour, at most, on cleaning before wanting to flee.

A job? Yech. My pitiful qualifications would limit me to standing behind a cash register. I did that for about a year, and it was sucking the life out of me. Yes, I need to get out of the house and interact with people. Even I recognize that, much as I'm inclined toward the hermit lifestyle. But is there any way to have mild, comfortable interaction without tremendous effort on my part? No one is going to come to my door to randomly befriend me. I have to reach out to people. That's terrifying. No one is going to reach out to me because they don't know I need it, but an irrational part of me says it's because they don't want to interact with me.

Oh, and most other people are busy during the day with, you know, jobs and parenting and important things.

I don't want to be a complete ingrate. I feel very, very fortunate that our financial circumstances aren't so dire that we need a dual income, and that my husband supports my desire to be at home for our kids. I'm very happy to have kids and be a mother. I love our house even if I don't keep it pristine and tidy and full of cutesy crafty decorations. Overall, I'm glad I have the life I'm living. It's just.... you know.

Ideal scenario? I get a literary agent, start getting publishing deals, and suddenly my hobby becomes my career. Then I'll go on book signings and such, which would provide social interaction in just the sort of venue I'd appreciate. Until then, I'm going to be squirming here at home, somewhere in between fear of the outside world and boredom with the inward.

Here's a confession: I hate Autism Awareness Month.

( Here we go )

I have lots of reasons to be cheerful and grateful today, but instead I'm grousing. Happiness really is a state of mind, isn't it?

( Good news and bad )

I haven't had much intelligent to post about lately, so I've kind of slacked off, but I'm in cheery mood today and I think I can ramble on in a semi-coherent manner. First off, I had a great Mother's Day. My husband let me sleep in, brought me breakfast in bed, and (squeals of delight) bought me a sewing machine! I've wanted one for some time, but they're so hideously expensive for such poor folk as us. However, he managed to find one used, in great shape, and it's even the same brand that my mom has, so I'm reasonably familiar with it. I haven't really used a machine since I've been married, so I'm probably going to be rusty at first. Once I get the hang of it again, though, I hope to start churning out costumes and garb and other such things that you can never find in a store, no matter how many places in the mall are devoted to the varied themes of fashion, wear or apparel. :P

My day was made even better when, after church, we picked up Luke at his class and he had made me a necklace out of noodles. Oh, he didn't know he was making it for me, he just likes putting things on strings, but when I took it and put it on, he didn't protest. It's the first Mother's Day gift he's actively made for me. And even more miraculously, he actually participated in the coloring activity, scrawling all over his paper with crayons. He hasn't shown interest in crayons in, oh, two years. Might I see a glimmer of hope on the horizon? I'm going to believe so.

Oh, yes, and our other child, the one who's normal. ;P Emma is astounding. She manages words like "dinosaur" without any tongue-tripping. She still has a few adorable mispronunciations ("Piserman" for Spiderman) but she can be quite intelligible even to strangers. And she generates quite lengthy sentences, sometimes with confused syntax, but good grief, she's two years old and she's well on her way to fluency. It really is a great gift after all our struggles with Luke's language acquisition.

A topic I've been considering a lot lately, related to parenting, is marriage. Specifically, what makes a marriage successful and happy. Now, we just celebrated our fifth anniversary, so I really can't call myself an expert by any stretch, but I know what's worked for us so far, and I think we have a pretty darn good relationship on most days. I think one single rule can sum up what makes it work. ( Arrogant advice from a novice )

I've often found myself, as a stay-at-home-mother/homemaker/housewife/or other dreaful names they come up with for what I do, feeling like I need to justify or excuse the peculiar choice of Not Having a Career. Which annoys me, because who do I need to explain my choice to anyway? And yet all sorts of explanations come into my head when someone asks "So do you work?" without any implication of accusation or derision, just a straight-forward, practical question. It makes me bristle, and then I feel silly. But here we go anyway.

( A long-winded justification )

Well, that's enough violent opinionating for one day.