I’ve been thinking about writing this post for a while now,
but the timing never seemed quite right.
It’s not anything potentially offensive or intensely emotional or
anything like that, but it is kind of a big deal for me. This post is essentially about yet
another way in which my life has changed since Max died. Before Max died, I was planning on
going back to work in August and was in the process of finding childcare for
him. I imagined myself dropping
him off in the mornings before I went to work and picking him up right after
school with Ethan. I would head
home with my boys. I would get
them dinner, make dinner for Scott and me, and then immediately start our
evening routine of baths, dishes, homework, diaper changes, and then
bedtime. In my perfect world, I
get to do enjoyable things after the boys are in bed, but in reality I would be
grading or doing lesson planning the majority of the time. And then I would go to bed and get up
and do it all over again. Before
Max died, this life was fine with me.
It was a necessary means to an end. The “end” is the weekend, summers, vacations, retirement,
etc. Since Max died, this life
isn’t okay with me. It’s not
fine. I’m not okay with being a
full-time teacher and a part-time mom.
I’m not okay with spending a few hours maximum with my kids every
day. I’m not okay with giving up
these years of their lives that I can never, ever get back. So, I’m not going back to work next
year. I’m venturing into the world
of stay-at-home-momness and filling my days with class parties, working with my
husband, and being the full-time mom that I need to be.
Before I got pregnant with Quinn, I would imagine myself
getting pregnant. It was one of
the few images I had in the aftermath of Max’s death that brought me happiness
and hope. I would imagine our
lives being filled with the joy of parenthood again, and I would imagine Ethan
beaming with pride again during his first meeting with his new little
sibling. Even these images were
followed with a sort of horror, though.
Would Ethan wonder when or if this sibling would die too? Would Scott and I ever be able to feel
the sense of permanence that should accompany a new life? How would I ever trust another person
to watch our new baby for a night out, let alone for five days a week while we
worked? I don’t have the answers
to many of the troubling questions, and I can’t control them either. I know that. But I can control some of them, and I fully intend on doing
that. Losing a child makes you
realize just how little control you really have in the grand scheme of things,
so controlling the things that you can is more important than ever. In the end, though, it’s not entirely
about control, at least in the sense that most of us think about it. My decision is about taking advantage
of every moment that I have with my children. My decision is about knowing what it feels like to have
those future, imagined moments ripped away and not wanting to give up any of
the ones that I could have as a result.
In a way, I feel like I’ve been given a chance at a life
that could be fulfilling in a totally different way. I love teaching.
There is a lot to love about it.
I work with people whom I respect and truly connect with. I work for administrators who are funny
and make my days enjoyable. I work
with students who are genuine and curious and open-minded. I tell them to give Hamlet a chance, and they do. And they like it. I ask them to
share their opinions with me, and they are articulate and mature and
surprising. Not every day, but
most days. Some of my former
students have become fixtures in my life.
I feel as proud as their parents must feel when they realize their dream
of attending the Boston Conservatory, are selected for prestigious leadership
programs at K-State, or give up all of their Christmas presents to make a
donation to Max’s memorial fund. I
watch them in awe every year as they connect their lives to the material we
study, win prestigious writing awards, and raise tens of thousands of dollars
for local charities. Yes, my job
is fulfilling. It is incredibly
rewarding. These things made it so
hard to give up. The people that I
know because of teaching make it hard to give up. There is one “job” that can exceed this fulfillment and
sense of reward, though:
parenthood. So, that will
be my job for the foreseeable future.
This decision, like so many others I’ve had to make since Max died,
creates a mixture of emotions:
nervousness, excitement, worry, stress, anticipation, and
happiness. It is stressful for
obvious reasons. We are a
two-income family, and I may not make a ton of money, but I make enough to be a
significant contributor to our lifestyle.
In the end though, I would rather stress about money than about whether
I can spend enough time with my children, whether I will miss Quinn’s
milestones, or whether Ethan notices that I’m one of the moms who never shows
up for his parties at school.
One of the many things that Max’s death has taught me is
that you truly never know what will happen. I’m approaching the next phase in our lives with that in
mind. I’m embracing the changes
that are coming, and I’m not expecting anything about it to be easy or as
expected. I could end up having to
go back to work after one year off, but at least I will have had that year with
Quinn and Ethan. I will be working
part-time for Scott in his newly established solo practice, and it could be
that my impact will be even greater than we anticipate it will be. Maybe I’ll work with him for the rest
of our “working” lives. I’m also
venturing into the world of higher education and teaching some college classes
online. Perhaps that will turn
into more than a part-time venture.
Any or none of these things could happen, and I can’t control that. I refuse to try to control that. What I do know is that I’m making the
right decision for myself, for Scott, for Ethan, and for Quinn. And I have Max to thank for giving me
the clarity and the strength to be able to walk away from something that I
truly love in order to enjoy something that I love even more, my family.
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