grassgreener

story by | melissa uetz

Why do we seem to think the grass is always greener on the other side? When I recently crossed the lawn from the corporate world to stay-at-home-mom-ville it seems I’ve discovered the same grass, but different fertilizer.

Before I decided to become a stay-at-home mom, I used to fantasize about how clean my home would be, and how cozy my days would be, when I would not be working outside of the house. What I realize now is I was living in a fantasy world. My mental images of an enthralled two year old cuddled on my lap intently listening while I read Dr. Seuss—well, let’s just say that balloon popped before lunchtime the first day. I used to appreciate the Oriental rug sprawled across my living room for how well it enhanced the décor. Now I’m happy the pattern camouflages the Alpha Bits and Goldfish crackers that inevitably get dropped and stepped on throughout the day. At least the dog can still find the crumbs, so it’s a win-win situation for everyone.

In my previous life, I would tell time by glancing at my computer. Now I can tell you the time of day, within fifteen minutes, by turning on PBS. Who needs an official timepiece when you know Elmo’s World will be on at 9:40 am each day without fail? I’ll groan when my son wakes up at Curious George instead of Sid the Science Kid; if he sleeps until Clifford I know I really got my beauty sleep.

With any “normal” job I’ve ever started, orientation usually included some type of manual with all the basic office policies. Unfortunately, my son did not come with this. If he had, my preference would have been a “choose your own adventure” style book where you could flip ahead to see what each outcome would be before you made the official decision. “To take away the pacifier at six months, turn to page 128.” Oops, you’ve created a serial killer. “To take away the pacifier at twelve months, turn to page 72.” Fabulous! He’s a Harvard graduate and Nobel Prize winner. If only it was that simple.

Office etiquette states a handshake is a proper greeting. During our first trip to the library, my son decided to greet everyone he encountered by petting them like our cat; toddler or grandpa, it didn’t matter. I was mortified. Did anyone even notice, or care, or sense the panic attack that was trying to erupt within me? Probably not. Once we gathered for story time, one little girl knocked the feltboard pieces to the floor, and another child sprinkled the librarian’s materials around the room. Did I notice? Barely. Did those moms have that same why-is-my-child-doingthat-in-public anxiety like I have? I wish I’d had the nerve to ask.

When I woke up in the past, I pretty much knew what my workdays would be like. Now when I wake up in the morning, it’s a mystery. Sure, we follow a schedule and do similar activities each day, but I never know which child I will be doing things with. Will I have the Sweet Prince, whose eyes can melt steel? How about the Screamer, with the fire-engine red face and siren to match? Can I just have someone in the middle, so I can make it through the grocery store without incident?

Being a mom is the hardest job I’ve ever had. The pay and the hours aren’t the best, but the benefits are priceless, so I’m not planning on turning in my resignation any time soon. I can’t anyway. I wouldn’t know who to give it to: the prince, the screamer, the explorer, the angel, the toy car mechanic… What I do know without a doubt is the grass on my lawn is the greenest in town.