Two Mothers Diverged In a Fancy Restaurant (and Both Were Happy) – ryan

Larissa knew I was pregnant. After the thrill of this news wore off, she wanted the meaty, juicy details I’d yet to share. So we met for lunch at the Radnor Hotel to spill the tea and stare at rich old ladies who dined here more regularly than we did.

“Any names?”

“Nope.”

“Gender reveal party?”

“Nope.”

“Birth plan?”

“Hospital. No drugs.”

“Yipes,” Larissa said. “No thanks. When I’m in labor, I’m getting all the drugs.”

We laughed while a woman in a starchy white button-down and maroon necktie poured water. I stared. I hate to think of this now, but I said a quick prayer, hoping never to be like her. I was working hard to build a different future for myself. I didn’t plan to serve others in that way. I intended to be served.

How moronic I was.

Then, I got pregnant.

Larissa thanked the woman, then returned her smile to me. “Well,” she said, “I have news, too. Bob is going back to school.” She slid a soft brown curtain bang behind her ear before adding he was changing his career too.

“He wants to be a doctor. It’s good for our family. We want different things, you know?”

I didn’t know. I thought Bob loved teaching chemistry. Larissa sipped water and glanced at the menu, her finger sliding down the gluten free and vegan options.

“So, what’ll you do for childcare?” Larissa said.

This was the question I knew was coming, but prayed might escape conversation. Larissa and I were both well educated. We were both married, working full-time, buying houses, and inching toward our versions of the American Dream. I looked around at the fancy restaurant with its linen tablecloths and matching napkins, and I knew my response would separate me from this posh, upper-class world. But worse than that, it would separate me from Larissa.

“I’m quitting my job,” I said.

If she ate gluten, Larissa would have spit her fresh sourdough on the table.

“What?” Her round eyes bore into me, her shock palpable.

“What?” I shot back, my pitch raised, my eyebrows reaching for the top of my forehead like escapees in a prison break. “My job isn’t that great,” I said. “I’m not saving the world or anything.”

Truth be told, I never loved my work. A string of six jobs in five years were all equally underwhelming. I suffered from a cycle of boredom. Maybe I picked the wrong major in college. Maybe I never worked hard enough. Heck, I knew I should have gone to law school. But here we were. Eight years after graduation and preggo. I figured that care for our first child couldn’t be worse than playing another domino in a row of uninspired jobs.

“But if you stay home, what are you supposed to DO all day? You’ll be bored out of your mind.”

My chest caved in a little. I had no idea what mothers did all day. I knew about databases and meetings and deadlines. I equated self-worth with accomplishments and a paycheck, even if I silently wondered if I’d been programmed to think that way.

“I’ll raise the baby,” I said. “I hear it’s a full-time job.” My discomfort signaled apprehension. Larissa took the hint and shifted our conversation back to medical school, thoughts of moving, and her uninspired boss. Conversation was normal, but I knew something had changed. We parted ways at the end of lunch, hugging and agreeing to “do this again soon.”

A few months later, Larissa shared news of her own pregnancy, and after labor, we met up to introduce our babies, hopeful our offspring would magnetize toward each other as we once had.

Then Larissa went back to work. And I didn’t. Her husband went to medical school, and we stopped being friends. A decade later, I’m not a lady who lunches. I lived on a budget to become the primary caregiver for what quickly became three beautiful kids.

In the early years, when I questioned my choice to stay home, I thought back to that lunch with Larissa. A creamy white tablecloth and polished utensils separated us while we sat fixed at the table. The truth was, I agreed with Larissa that my life would become boring, underwhelming, and not intellectually stimulating enough for me to feel satisfied. And yet, I chose to stay home. I followed a feeling.

At lunch that day, I felt like I needed an explanation, a validation for my choice. Larissa wasn’t looking for a thesis statement or a fully developed argument. She was kind and curious. But her questions launched me on a quest to define my decision. A quest that landed me in a pool of self-loathing for years. I felt like every minute of every day as a SAHM needed to be validated. I needed to prove that my time was always well spent, purposeful, educational, and critically important for my children’s well-being.

I wanted my choice to be “better” or “more worth it.” But, lots of times, choices are not better or worse, superior or inferior. As I transformed into a mother, I found myself grieving for who I once was and for the friends I lost. In my mind, I wanted 100 tangible, logical reasons why Larissa and I weren’t friends anymore. Further, I wanted to be a better person by making her worse. I wanted to fit into a camp of SAHMs and feel better for choosing the right side.

But life doesn’t work that way.

Not even close.

Every woman’s choice is a good choice so long as she believes in it.

So, what does it mean to choose to be home? Is it a sentence of boredom? No. Not even close. It means, “This is what I chose.” Was I bored? Sometimes. But aren’t we all a little bored sometimes? A decade later, I’m grateful I made the choice to be home. I’ve found creative, expressive ways to live my life that are full of purpose. But I’m even more glad to have discovered I don’t have to explain it to anyone. I can miss the past and the people who were in it without shaming myself for changing. And that’s pretty darn exciting, which is the total opposite of boring.