Becoming Betty Draper

…minus the alcoholism and psychosis…

Things I used to Google: how to dye your own hair; how to apply winged eyeliner; how to get wine stains out of carpet. Things I Googled after I got married: how to dress for a job interview; how to update an older fireplace; how to get wine stains out of carpet.

Things I Google now, with two small humans in my care and a “career” that revolves around snacks, poop, and naps: how to get a baby to sleep longer; how to effectively baby proof; how to get spit up stains out of carpet.

Life has a funny way of coming full cirlce, bringing you back to your days on the playground with other like-minded girls, playing house, “keeping” a husband, and raising eleven(ish) babies at once. As a child, that was my idea of happiness, although I also felt certain that I would be Princess of the Universe at the same time as rearing multiple children, so we don’t always get what we want.

When I got a bit older, and shut myself in my poster-ridden bedroom for hours at a time to listen to the Backstreet Boys and dream about my future as a pop star, or maybe a wildly successful actress, despite being terrified of being on stage or, truth be told, noticed at all by anyone, ever, house wifery was one hundred percent not on my radar. Babies were cute and all but Nick Carter was, like, wayyy cuter. Ditto Leo Dicaprio. Swoon.

As I matured and my career prospects took a more logical and likely turn towards business and commuting to “the office” — any office would do, honestly — I focused on that new and shiny goal. With marriage, however, came the talk of babies once more, and thus began my slow return to playing Mommy Dearest full time, watching my career fade and disappear into the horizon behind me.

I wasn’t sad to see it go. My career didn’t fulfill me as much as my toddler’s lopsided smile did, so when baby number two came along and the cost of the subpar daycare facilities proved to be too much to be worth my ho-hum career, the decision was an easy one — I would stay home with the babies and channel my inner June Cleaver.

Okay, it’ s more like a less self destructive Betty Draper, if we’re going for housewife role models from the golden era. But that’s what I do, now. I even pull back the bed covers in the morning, and make sure the kids are tidy by dinner time.

My days now are filled with toddler giggles, six year old joke-telling, and kinetic sand adventures. They’re also filled with toddler tears, six year old sass and kinetic sand in the carpet, but the days feel full and worth while.

It’s a little scary to be raising the next generation, the literal future of our world. When I watch my son play quietly with his construction toys I wonder whimsically if one day he’ll become a tradesperson and build beautiful buildings, or maybe an engineer or architect and be the brains behind their designs. And then he hurls a teeny excavator across the room and my vision turns to a stadium, my ears filled with boisterous cheers for my superstar athlete son as I stand by proudly.

My daughter, too, has me in awe of her brains and wit, and I seriously wonder if I will one day watch proudly as she runs for office. She’s bold and assertive and sly, and while that can make for a challenging six year old, it might just propel her into a world of success.

So this stay at home mom gig is nothing to snub your nose at. We all have a calling, and I think, for me, cleaning applesauce off the walls and wearing Cheerios in my hair might just be mine.

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