SAHM No More explores the the ups-and-downs of navigating a new world of parenting, transitioning from married stay-at-home motherhood to a full-time working, divorced motherhood. And there are a lot of adjustments being madeâa lot of adjustments and not a lot of sleep.
Lately, itâs been feeling like Iâm crawling toward the weekends. By the end of the week, after five straight days of waking up early to walk the dog, making school lunches, getting the kids to school on time, rushing off to work, rushing home from work, picking up the kids, making dinner, supervising homework, forcing showers on grubby, unwilling children, and then getting them into bed, the weekends always come as a huge relief. A relief, but not exactly a time of rest. This is because a good deal of my job is dependent on me going out and doing and seeing things that are happening around my city. So, I wind up going out to concerts and readings and new restaurants and bars. All of which are great things to do, but donât exactly contribute to relaxation or, frankly, my mental health.
What Iâm trying to say is that the state of my undereye circles is not good. And sometimes, when I am hustling my younger son to school and see other moms in their yoga gear or I run into them at a local cafe as I grab a cup of coffee to take on my morning commute while they settle in to a good conversation with a friend, I get a little wistful. Is wistful the right word? Is it more like flat-out jealousy? At times, itâs kind of felt like that.
The whole âgrass is greenerâ mentality isnât groundbreaking, but my feelings were only made clearer to me by a conversation that I recently had with a friend who is a stay-at-home mother. This conversation followed a long period of time when we just hadnât had the opportunity to see each other. We had made plans here and there, for lunch or coffee, but the plans had been broken after I had to take care of stuff at work. I had always apologized profusely and we had finally managed to reschedule, but we hadnât had any face-to-face communication in a while.
But still I was surprised when she flat out asked me, âAre you sure that youâre not bored of me?â
I immediately assured her that, of course, I wasnât bored of her. I tried to explain that I envied that she had more time to do things for herself and that it might sound like I was doing exciting things but that, really, I was just the same old person. How could I be bored of something that had been remarkably similar to my old life?