Mama Doesn't Have a Job

I find it interesting that I have three names. Okay, people call me a LOT of names, but I have at least three in my own home. One child calls me "Mama," one child calls me "Mother," and the baby calls me "Mommy." And no, I couldn't pick a favorite if I tried. I suppose it's actually quite handy with three kids. I know who's calling me by which name they are using. Take into consideration the fact that I have at least three distinct personalities and I guess it all makes sense.
My big girls talk a lot about growing up these days. They are about to finish their first year of kindergarten, and at some point during this year they have figured out that there's a goal at the end of all this school, something that they are working toward. They have also figured out that once it is done, at least one of their parents is expecting them to leave home. (That would be me. My husband says they can stay here until they die. He doesn't care if they ever leave. I really think he means it, too. Sounds like a topic we'll be discussing in therapy at some point.) Anyway, they have both declared on different days that they never want to leave home, leave us, leave their stuff, etc. I think that one was my favorite. One child told me that she didn't want to got to college because she wouldn't have her bed, her toys, and her blankie there. Good point, but she's still going. Or else.
Our sweet babysitter who has cared for my kids since the twins were about 4 months old is now in college, so it's a pretty hot topic around here. The other day we were in the car, where we have our best conversations, when from the back seat I heard:
Daughter 1: "Dad, does everybody have to go to college?"

Dad: "No, I guess they don't have to."

Daughter: (In the whiny tone that I hold so near and dear to my heart) "Well does everybody have to have a job?"

Dad: "Um, yeah. That's where money comes from. It comes from work."

Daughter: (Very matter-of-factly) "Well, MAMA doesn't have a job."

My husband patiently explained that my job is taking care of them, that we share the money he brings home, and that he is able to go out and work hard because he doesn't have to worry about who is taking care of his girls. Have I mentioned that I love this man?
Anyway, to my dear, sweet, precious angel that I gave up my girlish figure, my sanity, and hours of sleep for: I sincerely hope that God allows me to live until you are a mother. When you call me complaining about how hard motherhood is, how you haven't had any sleep in days, how none of your clothes fit...I could go on for days here...I am going to gleefully remind you that you once said that I didn't have a job.
And it's not just my kids. People ask me all the time if I'm working. Do I have a regular job, or am I "just at home with the kids?" Maybe it's just me, but when I tell them that I'm a stay at home mom, people who aren't parents give me that knowing I-bet-you-sit-on-the-couch-and-eat-bon bons-all-day look. To which I say, "Have you ever MET my kids?" They have a sensor that goes off immediately whenever my butt comes into contact with a surface of any kind. Especially the toilet. Doesn't matter what else is going on in the universe, when my bare butt touches a toilet seat everyone (and I do mean EVERYONE) in the house wants to talk to me. And it's an emergency that I must attend to right now. I haven't made an unhurried trip to the bathroom in years. When I'm diagnosed with some as yet unheard of medical condition in the future, I'm going to blame it my kids rushing me in the bathroom.
I got an inkling of what was coming when I was pregnant with my twins. We lived over our veterinary clinic, in a loft apartment. I could hear everything, and I do mean everything that went on downstairs. I was on modified bed rest (three hours on my feet per day, including my shower) on and off throughout my twin pregnancy. Once when I was seven months along, I was doing my best to find a comfortable position with two other people squirming and kicking and pushing each other in my belly. (It started early and it hasn't stopped.) I heard a woman downstairs ask for my husband. When she found out he was out of the office, she asked loudly, "Well does his wife just not do anything anymore?" It took quite a lot of self control not to haul my hormonal butt up out of that chair and go crazy on her, but I didn't.
Not long ago, I heard through the grapevine that one of my classmates was wanting to leave her job. She told one of her co-workers that I should "just get off my butt" and come take her job, because I wasn't "doing anything but sitting at home with her kids anyway." See what I mean about people who aren't parents?
I've said all this to say: I love my "job." I have the most important job in the world, trying to teach the three precious people I gave birth to how to be productive members of society. I took time away from a career that I loved because being at home with my children was more important to me than being a veterinarian. And because I had a hard-working husband with a good job who agreed that this was where I should be. Loving, nurturing, playing with, and caring for them on a daily basis is the most important work I will ever do. It's not always easy, and it's definitely not always fun. But it's worth it. I love you, girls. You are the best job ever.