The Green Eyed Monster

As I have discussed previously, I am at a bit of a crossroads with the whole stay at home mother thing. No, I am not considering going back to work, but I am at the point where I feel I could be doing more intellectually if the opportunity, and the childcare, were to present itself. Sadly, with the economy in the crapper and our plan this year to end our days as The Family Who Lived in the Shoe, I have had to shelve the sitter/writing plan and try to squeeze in a little work here and there when I can. And as anyone who has spent a significant amount of time with three children under seven knows, little means, none at all.

Do not fear, this is not a bourgeois-angst ridden post about how hard it is to be doing something some women would give their eye teeth to do, but rather I want to confess feeling yet another ugly emotion so you all know you are not the only ones.

During the dinner rush Friday night I got a text from Hubby telling me a project he was working on during the holidays has gained momentum again and he would need to work all day on Sunday. I could tell by his choice of words he was super-excited and I was excited for him as well and, while I quickly got over my disappointment that I would be alone with the kids on what is usually our family day, something stopped me from being there one hundred percent.

When he got home he filled me in on the details and the big meetings that would ensue and what a great project this was, all while frantically checking his Blackberry while we had our Friday night drinks. Rude? A little. But considering he was getting vital emails on Christmas Eve I wasn't surprised and held my tongue. That is until the wine got to me, and Hubby's brother called to invite him to dinner on Monday night, adding a social outing to what was already going to be a week I would wind up being a single parent and I snapped.

What was the problem? What could be my issue with my husband working long hours on a project he is excited about or meeting his brother on a weeknight when, to be honest, I'd rather stick needles in my eyes than go out on a Monday? Sure, it adds a little work to my day, but the real problem? The real, ugly, God's honest truth of the matter?

I. Am. Jealous.

There, I said it. I am jealous my husband is feeling the same excitement and professional fulfillment I once did before I had children. And while I have discussed, ad nauseam, my issues with being at home with the kids, this particular Friday night I was really proud of myself because I put it out there. In a wine-fueled, tear-filled deluge, I let is all out, confessing to Hubby rather than doing what I usually do which is pick a fight about laundry or taking out the garbage, which I then nicely let spiral into an You always/You never-fest. Which, as we know, is always very productive. It's kind of liberating, actually, to just come out and say how you feel. Rather than talking around it and going on and on about "life choices" and "validation", stomping my foot, literally (not my proudest moment), and wailing, "It's not fair!", felt so good and honest, and frankly, it saved shitloads of time.

To his credit Hubby didn't call Bellevue to immediately prepare my room, but he listened. And after the storm passed I was able to see the forest for the trees. Raising a family is all about give and take. As I tell my girls, with three kids, everyone can't have my attention all the time, but everyone gets a turn*. And right now? It's not my turn. Right now is not about me, it's about my kids and our family. My turn will come, and is coming, as I enrolled Little Man in school three mornings a week in the fall, and I will have more and more time for myself to pursue my goals. And in our world where we all operate on the principal of self-interest, it may sound like a throw-back-fifties-housewife-cop-out, but I think, sadly, at thirty-five, it's a sign of growing up.

So I just wanted to put it out there, dear readers. Since letting you see my ugly is what I'm all about. I'm wondering if I can start a movement to have all disputes distilled down to sentences containing five words or less, such as, "I'm angry you did that" or "That was rude". But then again, not ever being able to say again, "If you keep leaving socks on the floor I will be forced to shove them up your ass", would be very limiting. Or maybe I could adjust. "Only douche-bags don't use hampers". Ha!

*props to Sasha for enlightening me to this "taking turns" way of thinking after one of our many "I have too many fucking kids" phone calls.