What gets lost along the way

I remember the exact moment I realized what I really wanted to do with my life.

I was covering an odious Monday night school board meeting, and an executive session had been called, leaving me twiddling my thumbs and counting the seconds that dragged by until the meeting would resume. While those in attendance waited, a young father scooped up his small daughter and zoomed her around the room making airplane noises while she screamed in delight.

“I want to do that instead,” I realized.

Journalism is a funny beast. You have to really, really love it because the pay is crap, the hours are worse than crap, and everyone within shouting distance of your circulation is more than willing to say you’re crap if you write something they disagree with. But I always felt like it meant something. Not much, maybe, but I tried to do some good and highlight some truth.

But that night, covering that meeting, I realized there was something I’d love doing even more; Being a mom.

Fast forward three years and here I am, Mommy Mommerkins McMom. Mrs. Mommy Mommerkins McMom, actually. Full time stay-at-home mom extraordinaire.

And since this was my choice, and it is all I wanted, it should be enough, right?

But it isn’t.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids with everything I’ve got. I never regret the choices I’ve made. But if I’m honest with myself (and you, I suppose) I would have to say there are times when I find myself wanting something more.

Everything I am today is defined in relation to my kids. Everything I do, everything I plan, everything I hope, it all revolves around them and my husband. The meals I cook, the diapers I change, the shows I watch--all of it. There are days when I feel like somehow the person I am got lost along the way.

I was going to write things that mattered. I was going to earn money and be recognized and respected for my place in society. My teachers told me I had potential, and I believed them.

And maybe I let us all down.

I wouldn’t trade my time with my kids. And logically I know what I do matters, even if it is ephemeral and unskilled. And it’s with no small amount of guilt that I write these words, because I know, as deeply as anyone can know anything in this world, that I am blessed.

But I’m also lonely. And most of my witty pop-culture references are wasted on the three and under crowd. And I really, really hate watching movies about Barbie. Really.

I’m lucky. I’m so, so lucky. I know that. And this should be enough.

So why isn’t it?