When I left my corporate job last October to pursue a career in freelance writing, I told myself I was doing it for my family. I believed it too; spending 2½ hours a day with my kids rushing through homework, dinner, and baths hardly felt like the way motherhood was supposed to be.
Once I made the transition home, I got itchy; itchy to do more. I started taking on more and more (and more) freelance work until I was working around the clock. Sure, I was home with my kids but “being there” without actually being there was not only confusing for my kids, but agonizingly heavy on my heart. I worked evenings, weekends, holidays, and birthdays. I worked when family was in town, while the rest of the family was sleeping, and while my husband took the kids to the park. I missed BooBoo’s 2 seconds of glory riding a bike for the first time without training wheels, and why? Because I was working.
Listen, I’m no stranger to missing firsts. I raised two kids through infant daycare. I’ve missed first words, first steps, and first potties in the toilet. When I made the decision to pull my kids out of daycare and try my hand at earning a living from home, I never expected the cycle to continue. But it did, because perhaps even more than my desire to be home with my kids was my desire to prove to myself that I had the chops to make a living as a writer. Opportunities and a steady paycheck validated my talents in an addictive way and I loved it. What I didn’t love was what happened next…[read more]