I always had this idea in my head that I was going to be some feminist, working mom, Sheryl Sandberg type, and I always assumed that having children meant this dream was never going to come true.
What made me think that I couldn’t have both?
It definitely wasn’t my mother. Miss working girl, dressed to the nine in ray bans and big shoulder pads with a stellar perm that could knock your socks off. Raising two kids on her own.
Could it have been society? The blazing pink barbie that glimmered ever-so subtly in the Christmas tree lights. The catholic preschool that didn’t accept me because I wasn’t able to name the tool the teacher held in her hand was called a ‘hammer.’ I’m sorry my parents don’t fit to your concept of norm.
Or is it in fact, that children actually do make you feel gushy inside? And too tired to even grasp a simple concept such as dialling a telephone number?
In a way I already am that person, maybe a more modest version, but that is me. And on top of it all, I have been able to do both. The career and the kid. The only problem is that I’m not happy anymore.
I look at my son in the face and realise that this is it. All of the other bull shit, is quite literally bull shit.
Do I really enjoy my life? Am I really happy every single day?
Meetings, presentations, screens, we might as well call ourselves robots. The deepest conversation I have is about a t-shirt,
“Hi, how was you weekend?”
“Good, how was yours?”
“Love your t-shirt!”
That is the extent to which we share ourselves at work.
Why do I surround myself with people who I have no feelings towards, and likewise people who have no feelings towards me. If we saw each other on a train, we would ignore one another. What kind of soul am I building for myself?
What happened to the heart in my life? The days where I would jump in the rain puddles and laugh, a deep laugh that you feel in your belly. The days where I would sled down the mountains with my brother, roll around in the mud, kick the sand and pick up my bunny named ‘Peaches’ and kiss her floppy ears with all of my might.
I look at my son and I see all of the things he is going to do, and it makes me sad to think that one day he may have to sit in an office and wish for something better. Something more fulfilling, something that really lifts him and opens his eyes and inspires him to do amazing things.
Have I chosen the wrong path or am I caught in a blurry haze of wishing I could stay at home with my son? I’ve always felt this way, but my son has drawn this out of me more than I could have imagined.
Do we all get a chance to do a job that inspires us or has society created a system where only the lucky few get to really live the dream every single day?
My goal in life should not be a Mercedes Benz, or a big fancy house, or even a hot shit career. The goal should be happiness, and that is it.
It’s like reading a really good book, you have this feeling inside that makes you want to jump up and down and squeeze the person next to you. It makes you feel real.