Look What I Can Do

 When my son was born I  gave  up everything. Not "everything" like when I was pregnant, and stopped indulging in vices everything, (I actually gave up relatively little, though twice I suffered through nine months without eating raw eggs in the form of batter), but "everything" like I quit coaching at Radcliffe to move to an outpost at the tippy top of Illinois without internet or panes of glass in the windows.  From a certain vantage, I was the most selfless young mother, putting herself on hold, committed so fully to the emotional well being of her new baby. In another light, though, I was just plain lucky have been able to stay home and play.  I slept when Henry slept, woke up when Henry woke. I had the happiest baby in all the world and I loved every single moment.  To paint myself as a martyr is mostly inaccurate.

I didn't mind not having the internet, I didn't care that much about the lack of dishwasher, I happily shared a single car with Josh, my ego rarely compared me to my successful peers.  All of these sacrifices were inconsequential in comparison with the heartbreak I would have been unable to endure if I left my baby(ies) to the care of someone else and went to work.  (Beyond that was the unavoidable reality that, while my Harvard degree in social anthropology prepared me to be capable of anything, it qualified me for nothing.  More on that another time.). Perhaps I chose to stay home less for my children's happiness and more for my personal well being.

(There are innumerable directions to steer this discourse, but for sake of brevity and for love of humor, I'll avoid the heavy stuff.  Check back later to see how it all sorts out.)

No matter the reasons, stay-at-homing was the best option for the Morelocks and we all basked in our time together.  A happy coincidence brought me back into contact with someone from the Rockford YMCA Rowing Club last winter.  He goaded me when I said that I was waiting to return to rowing until I had avoided the hospital for a year, saying "well I've fallen off mt roof - twice - and I'm there."  Despite my annoyance at being trivialized by someone without the balance or good sense to stay on or off a roof, over the following months I hesitated and hesitated and then finally called to volunteer as an assistant coach for the high school rowing team.  Though I was welcomed to the program with open arms, doubt plagued me.  I was going to be away from Henry and Jettie for 3 hours every morning.  How would they possibly function without me?  How could their days possibly proceed with Grandma and Grandpa serving cereal instead of me?

This worry and guilt consumed me, until one day Jettie, putting on her pants, victoriously cried "look Mom, I'm just like you!"
"Of course you are.  What do you mean?"
"I can put on my pants standing up!"

As impressive as is my ability to dress myself without sitting on the bathroom floor, it suddenly occurred to me that only showing my daughter my talents as a pick-upper of children's toys was a terrible disservice.

 My first morning as a coach again, I returned home to two very proud and very excited kids.  The fact that I corrected their misunderstanding of the nature of volunteerism, in which they mistakenly thought that my newly acquired load of money would result in new toys, did not fully dampen their spirits.  Many wonderful mornings I awoke one or the other at dawn to ride around the Rock River with me, stopping on the way home for a donut and milk.

They might only have been coming along for the donuts, but no mind.  It would have been really hard on one of us to have been apart for too long.