I am a stay-at-home mom.

It’s a job, it’s my job, and it is hard.

I recognize that it’s my choice, and that I’m fortunate enough to even have a choice. Yet sometimes, well, if I’m honest most of the time, I’m left questioning my ability to make sound choices at all.  Why would any sane person choose this job? I suppose for me a guilty conscience has something to do with it. My eldest is twelve so I figure that I need to get my youngest to at least that age before I turn in my resignation. 

My mom worked full-time when I was a child. I secretly envied my classmates whose moms could participate in school activities or stay home with them when they were sick. That lovely task always fell to my father. He was self-employed all of my life. Small town self-employed. Tree service, irrigation jobs, catfish; he even raised beef cattle for a while. Point being, when I was sick and if it was bad (think standard stomach bug) I would lay on the sofa and he would place a small glass of ginger ale and a large bowl next to me. I would do my best to make it in the bowl. Saltines would be offered periodically. If it was a low grade fever or any illness that warranted that I stayed home from school but didn’t need a bowl (toilet or otherwise), I would most likely end up shotgun in his old pick-up truck running all over the midlands of South Carolina as he did whatever he needed to do that day.It was on one of the latter days that I experienced my first and only cattle auction. Having missed school due to some stomach issue, that I now suppose must not have needed a bowl (toilet or otherwise), I found myself sitting shotgun in the old pick-up truck between my father and a man named Mr. Belk. They weren’t friends, in fact, it was probably the only time I ever met Mr. Belk, but I remember his name because his granddaughter was in my fifth grade class and he told me so that day. They were going to the same auction, so logically decided to ride together.Even the shortest of car rides, when you are a kid, seem to take forever, and it felt like forever before we parked outside of an old arena. I don’t remember much except I was told to sit on one of the top most bleachers, and so I sat, and sometimes lay down, while cow after cow was led in and out of the grounds below. 

Most children, at least my children, want a pet. They ask for a dog or a cat, and if that doesn’t happen, they compromise and perhaps ask for a hamster or lizard. This goes on until  they get the animal they want, or they reach the least desirable option, and ask for a fish. The only thing worse than a fish is a plant, and that of course was my suggestion after explaining that twin siblings are a legitimate rival to any pet.  

On cattle auction day, I asked my father for a calf. The calves were being auctioned with a starting bid of thirty or forty dollars. I say starting bid as though I understood the nuances of cattle auctions back then, but I didn’t. All I heard was thirty dollars, and all I saw was an adorable baby cow prancing around beckoning me to love it.