Motherhood Diaries: I Should’ve Been Able To Do It All

Being a stay-at-home-mom left more than a gap in my resume.

“Please fill out your bio,” Jack said at the end of the meeting. “It’s informal, just two lines: what you do and your affiliation with our community.”

“Sure,” I said. “No problem.” I closed Zoom and opened the Google doc.

Sure, no problem, I thought.

Twelve volunteer board members. Eleven of them are an “is.”

Jack is a tax attorney. Mary is an ER nurse. Jean is a non-profit consultant.

I don’t have an “is,” only a “was.”

An entry was started and left blank for me to complete:

Anne is—

My fingers gridlock. My cheeks flush. My armpits moisten. I can’t type it. I won’t. Bitter tears threaten to fall.

How did I get here? Why did I stay here?

Anne is—

There’s even an acronym, like a secret club, or a covert government agency, or a professional certification denoting prestige, or like a disease, simultaneously chronic and acute, code-able and deniable for insurance purposes: SAHM.

Anne is a stay-at-home mom. No. I refuse.

Anne is—

I lost my “is.” Motherhood swallowed it.

I was:

“The smart one.”

I was:

The BFF finishing Kate’s homework so we could play. The roommate tutoring calculus and accounting so we could go to the bar for 2 for 1 drinks. The shining star, summa cum laude, parading an overachiever’s resume and a signature dangling triple letter stamps of value: CFA, MBA.

I was:

The college graduate of blue-collar parents, the prize stock of a line of cops and Irish immigrants, the clean slate of an uncountable ancestry of alcoholics. The daughter trained not to need a man, the sister destined to make up for the rest, the child born to save a marriage.

I was:

The one everyone knew would “make it.”

I was:

The one who fought her way back into the workforce after a downsizing turned into a child-bearing sabbatical which turned into a debilitating postpartum.

I was:

The one who crawled out the wreckage of depression and earned back her window office, her priority parking spot, her dedicated assistant. The one whose salary plus bonus afforded full-time child care and a beach vacation.

I was:

The one whose high-needs child required she turn in her elevator key and parking garage pass.

I surrendered my “is.” Motherhood confiscated it.

I planned to take off a year, two at most. To find a more flexible path.

My husband’s career soared during my baby-making years. He flourished while I faltered.

His words were warm with good intention, “Do what you want. You don’t need to work. You don’t need to make money.”

Need. How do you define need? If I don’t need to make money, if I don’t need to work, if I don’t need a professional identity to show up in the world,

Why does the shame I wear fit like a second skin?

The doctor appointments, medical research, and insurance battles. The therapies: play, talk, art, equine, occupational, mindfulness. The holistic diets, vitamins, supplements, oils. The school meetings, social skills classes, neuropsych evaluations. The tantrums, the explosive rage I absorbed like a punching bag, the dysregulation I soothed, the opposition I shielded, the make-shift world I created to lighten everyone’s load.

The years invested in growing a perfect child into a thriving teen.

No. SAHM is not my is.

I should’ve been able to do it all.

Anne is—

Language rescues me. Words are my salve. I reclaim my “is.” I tap the keyboard.

Anne is a mother, a writer, and a former Investment Banker. My board bio, done.