Fulfilled

In typical Caren-fashion, I had my day laid out before me: people to visit, a million errands, the temple, just my regular stuff that I love.  But Bronwyn went to bed with a sore throat and is still not feeling well.  It’s a very rare thing to have a sickie around our house, and so I asked if she wanted to stay home.  I knew it was the real thing because she loves school.  She switched back into her pajamas and has been curled up on the couch ever since.

Am I disappointed?  Are you kidding? I love having my kids home with me.  I spend far too much time on my own, I absolutely love their company.  And I love playing mom to them.  With the five of them in college and high school and jr. high, they really don’t seem to need me much these days… and so it makes me so happy when I can dust off my mom hat and wear it for a day.

As I’ve been puttering this morning, I couldn’t help but think of an experience a friend shared with me earlier this week.  I teared up as she told me about it because it confirmed to me the importance of what we’re doing as moms.  She turned down a job that seemed perfect to her because she realized all of a sudden how fulfilled she was at home, something that had alluded her until she got serious about a job.

As the kids get older and especially once they’re in school, it gets a little weird admitting I’m a stay at home mom.  To no one.  Or at least not until after school.  I smile.  I shrug.  I know how it looks.  Like I’ve retired at 45.  Do I wonder what else I should be doing?  Obviously.  Of course.  But for now, for this season, for just a little longer, I’m content.  Not because it means I have days free to put together puzzles and quilt and read my stack of books (those are all on my dream list btw).  But because it means I’m free to do all the things I’ve been able to do this week and especially today with my little 12 year old home with me.

It’s snowy out.  A beautiful wintry day with snow balancing precariously on the fence posts.  The perfect kind to be wrapped up on a couch with Christmas music in the background.  And a dog curled up beside you.  I made her favorite broccoli potato soup (because we don’t have any canned soup, my bad).  The washer and dryer are humming along.  I’m working on a lesson for Sunday, some stuff for school, some other stuff for church.  I paid the bills and sent a letter to our missionary son.  I’ve been in touch with friends and my sisters.  I checked on the chickens and cleaned up after the dogs.  I’ll iron.  Make treats for the teenagers who will be over tonight.  And scoot my errands to tomorrow’s list.

I’m in my happy place.  I love being home.  It’s my favorite place in the whole world.  I love making it comfortable for my family.  I love being able to cook for them.  I love when they ask for cookies.  I love that I know where their important papers are filed and that we have rubber cement.  I love creating an atmosphere that is warm and homey and safe and peaceful.  I love being here when they yell Mom? through the house.

Yes, to many it looks like I’m a housewife from the 50s, not using my college education or abilities for anything real.  That I’m sacrificing myself so other members of my family can get ahead and shine.  That’s not at all how I see it.  I don’t want awards or promotions or even money.  I don’t care a lick what a professional accolade would feel like.  Do we really need an extra car? Or more clothes or to vacation in Italy?  I’ve never been happier or more satisfied than I am in my home doing exactly what I’m doing.  Out of all the successes I could have in the world, I would be blind if I thought any one of them compared to the joy a happy family brings me as a mom.  I’m just blessed beyond measure to be able to be home; I know so many who would love it but simply don’t have that privilege.  And so I’m grateful—so intensely grateful—that I don’t have to juggle it all, that I’m able to fill my week with home and family and a little else on the side.  It’s a wonderful life.  Especially on a sick day.