The Grass Isn’t Always Greener: The Plight of Motherhood in the 21^st Century

By Terri L. Porter

As I sit on a grassy knoll watching a band play 70’s rock music at our local farmer’s market, my sixteen year-old daughter on my right and my three year-old son playing near by, the beautiful Southern California sun dancing warmly across my face, I am struck by two things. One, how much joy there is in these simple things. Moments like this shared with my children.

Secondly, that the grass is not always greener on the other side. When my older children were small like my three year-old, I was a stay-at-home mom. Caring exclusively for four young children, cooking, cleaning: the whole nine yards. As a young mother not yet thirty with so many responsibilities weighing so heavily on my shoulders, I could never stop to enjoy a simple moment like this one. I felt that the children’s every misstep, every runny nose, every dirty hand was a poor reflection on me as a mother…and as a person.

 My whole identity was tied intimately with their behavior, producing in me and in them a high-level of stress. I would scream. I would yell. Even spanking on occasions. And not necessarily over the big things, like running into the street or sticking a metal spoon into an outlet. But stupid little things like not sitting down when I said too. Or not being quiet, just because I said to. Or even god forbid, getting your good clothes dirty.

Looking back now things that embarrass me as a parent. Things which I find myself apologizing for to the older children. Things which they resentfully point out to me I never do to their younger brother. Things that robbed me of pleasure in them. Things which I wish I could change. But am doing better this second time around.

Eventually, I found myself angry, frustrated and unhappy. My children suffering a similar fate. So with a major gulp of courage or perhaps it was simple desperation, I returned to college at the age of 28. My youngest child was the same age then as his brother is now. A mere three years old. My oldest was eight. So taking out grants and student loans and restructuring our marriage, our family and our lives, we embarked on a six-year saga that would net me not one, but two degrees. And a different path.

Along the way, our marriage dissolved. But perhaps that inevitability had only been delayed by my new interest in school and career. So at the ripe old age of 35 with a BS and a master’s degree, the ink not even dry on my divorce, I moved to Los Angeles, a place I had always dreamt of living. To begin a new life.

And begin a new life, I did. From scratch. The only thing I had to show for 14 years of marriage was a beat up old Dodge Neon that leaked oil, a crappy e-Machines computer and hours of loneliness. My ex had custody of our two youngest sons while my oldest son and daughter went to live with my mother in South Carolina. Just until I got myself settled mind you.

What ensued was six months of hell. When I had been changing smelly diapers, referee fights and burning dinner, I had dreamt of blessed silence. Of being alone with only my thoughts to keep me company. But what I found was that that existence was anything but a panacea. I was lonely. I questioned my whole life. And at times I ran from myself. I sought refuge in meaningless relationships, casual sex. Anything not to be alone.

I clearly remember walking on the beach one day. There was a woman there. A couple of years younger than I was with three small boys. She was yelling at them. Over something stupid though I don’t remember what. I saw in that moment the true ugliness of what I had done and been. I swore that day that when the children were back with me I would never again scream like that. And while I am not perfect, my children will tell you I have changed drastically and kept that promise to much greater extent.

In the months and years that were to come, I achieved everything that I had ever dreamt of. I was a professional fundraising. I was managing a $1.6 million account. I was leading a nine person team on this project. I was a single mother of three teenage kids. I had even begun a new family. Though the relationship had not worked, I had a beautiful young son that I shared custody of with his dad. And I managed to breeze into his pre-school with cookies just often enough to show that I was a Super Mom.

But it came at a high cost, missed first words, missed first steps and so many other missed firsts. All the things that I could eloquently tell the older children about, I missed with him. I rationalized of course. Being happier with my career allowed me to enjoy the quality time with him. Even if it wasn’t as much time as I had spent with the older children. And I was teaching him the value of discipline and work. I was providing a higher living standard for him and the others. I knew the lines by heart.

But the stress of this new life was substantial. Working forty plus hours a week (even during my vacations I worked). Maintaining a clean and organized home. And being a single parent to four children. It was tiring. At the end of each day, I collapsed. At the end of each week, I had more things on my to-do list than week to do it in. And once again, I found myself angry, frustrated…and this time alone.

Then something amazing happened. January 18^th, 2005. A tractor trailer ran me off the road. A piece of metal ripping through the underside of my car, tearing a hole in my gas tank. And in the space of 15 minutes, I had missed death not once but twice. First from the near miss accident with the truck and then from the leaking gas that could have so easily exploded.

I had everything. I was the Enjoli woman that I had always dreamt of being. I brought home the bacon. I fried it up in the pain. And I never let him forget the romance. Because I was a woman. So why didn’t it feel right?

In the days and weeks to come, everything I had ever known or though I knew came into question. In the end, my conclusion was that if that truck had hit me or if the gas had exploded, everything I had worked for would have meant nothing. People were at that mattered. Not million dollar accounts. Not high powered, high stress jobs. Just people…most especially my family. I’m lucky I suppose. I have been given this second chance. So many people aren’t. Never realizing what they have until it is gone.

Don’t get me wrong. I have not given up on career or making a difference. Rather I have re-adjusted my goals. Now I volunteer my fundraising skills to my daughter’s school. Making a difference in something in which I believe strongly while keeping those skills sets current. And I have begun to build a portfolio of writing jobs that will allow me to work from home and to fulfill another dream that I had since I was in sixth grade…to be a writer.

Because at the heart of me, I am both. I am that stay-at-home mom that makes cookies and enjoys picking her child up from school, even if it is high school. But I am just as much the working woman of the 21^st century. I have a deep need to work. But more importantly to leave this world a better place than I found it. It is just that now I have a new perspective on what that means. At least to me.

The real truth is that in the societal war of stay-at-mom versus working mother. There is no winner. But most importantly there is no loser. Whether we stay at home with our children or balance work and family, the most important thing is taking the time to enjoy every single minute we have with them. The old adage of quality time is true. Those moments just sitting in the sun listening to the music and watching your child play are irreplaceable. Their value much more than any million dollar account.

So no matter your path, when your child runs smiling into your arms and hugs you, pressing snooty nosed kisses to your face, and extolling his love for you, forget everything else, including the stupid Kleenex and just squeeze him as tight as you can. Cause that is what life is all about.