Oooh, Baby, Do I Know What I'm Worth?

At my high school graduation with my whole future ahead of me

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You can fail at what you don’t want. So, you might as well take a chance on doing what you love.

-Jim Carrey

I stared at the computer screen and my heart dropped. The meeting was in 15 minutes and I had forgotten to include the data on the slide that would justify our proposal for ordering 30% more denim for the… good lord, THIS is what I’m doing with my days? Merchandise Planning has been my career for close to a decade, yet absolutely nothing excites me about analyzing data to figure out how many CDs, tents, plaid shirts or jeans are needed. These days, the office was more of a respite from chasing around my young kids, and man, it was really beginning to show. Shouldn’t I be better at this by now? I mean, after all these years I should be more confident in this job that involves sales data, forecast projections, industry trends that affect the assortment plan and optimal inventory lev… Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Hi, I’m Sheevani and I’m a Merchandise Planner. Gross. No, no I’m not. Hi, I’m Sheevani and I played a Merchandise Planner for many years.

Character Description: Indian woman, age 26-36 who loves everything Microsoft Excel and Access. She’s excited about replenishment systems, designing databases and spreadsheets with extra-small print on extra-large paper. On a daily basis, she will use the following terms: sales-lift, merchandising vehicles, product allocation and assortment plans. She never fails to build a solid rapport with her male bosses because she, too, gets a huge boner when inventory levels are juuuuuust right.

I sank my teeth into this role for about 10 years. I really wanted to love it and there were times when I convinced myself that it was enough. Now, I don’t want to offend the droves of Merch Planners who may read this. Look, you’re all doing the work we need. I mean, I know I have you to thank when I go to Target and my Olay Regenerist inventory is plentiful. Conversely, I also know who to blame when I cannot find any Key Lime Oikos Greek Yogurt on the shelf. I mean, clearly someone didn’t adjust the planned sales days factor!! Whew, sorry, I should have warned you this was going to get sexy.

From a very early age, my interests gravitated toward the creative. Also, from an early age, I was frequently reminded by my father that math and science were the most important subjects in school. “Why did you get Bs in math and science, Sheevani?” my father would ask after I handed him my report card. Mind you, the rest of the grades were As (NERD ALERT), but my father would focus on those Bs. Math and science did not come easy to me, and I was proud of those Bs… until my Dad was disappointed in those Bs. It was frustrating at the time, but I know his intention was to make sure I focused on subjects that would lay a foundation to lucrative careers like engineering or medicine. Indian stereotype much, DAD?!?!

Through other channels, I was able to nurture my creative side until college. Ah college, a period of time that holds some of my fondest memories, none of which include academic achievement. True story, I chose my major because of a nickname. Due to my penchant for arguing (mostly with him), my father nicknamed me “defense lawyer.” No matter the topic, I’d always defend the underdog. So yeah, in August of 1996, I sat in a muggy classroom at my Michigan State University orientation, and checked a little box under Major that read, “Political Science - Pre-Law.”  Yup, that’s how immature I was. Looking back, I should have never been allowed to go away to school. Nevertheless, I went and played the part.

Character Description: Indian girl, age 17-22 who thirsts for the writings of Plato, Thomas Paine, John Locke and every other political philosopher out there. In her study groups she is the silent contributor by way of taking notes and assembling presentations. During a heated Political Theory debate, she nods or shakes her head and says, “Absolutely!” or “Oh, come on!” without adding anything of real substance. She laments about the stresses of the LSAT and choosing a law school. Her grades are average, at best, but sometimes spike if the TA is hot. 

As Denise Huxtable will tell you, college is a "Different World" and well, a scary one for me to follow any of my creative pursuits. I did a pitiful amount of research on the theater opportunities when I first arrived at MSU, but my fear took over. Sure, I had a great chance to land a role in the school play at Kimball High School, but at a large university? No way. So instead, I distracted myself with the fun aspects of college; independence, friends, my first love and lots of chicken wings. Like, TOO many chicken wings. I cannot stress this enough… one time a bag of wings was delivered with “WING-O-RAMA” written on it in black marker. 

I didn’t have the courage to change my major to theater or at least something related to writing. I'll never make peace with the fact that I wasted my parent's money on an area of study that I knew I wouldn't pursue. I was too scared to tell them I didn't want to be a lawyer, so I kept up the ruse. I really thought settling for something my parents would be proud to talk about with their friends would deaden the pain of denying my true purpose. 

“Acting is fine as a hobby, Sheevu, but not as a career. Do something sensible.” Daddy would say.

Oh, by the way, my paternal grandfather was once the president of the Indian Motion Picture Producers’ Association, no big deal. THAT’S RIGHT. My father’s father was in the movie business in Bombay. Daddy never spoke much about that except to say that he was the one son who didn’t take an interest in performing, while his 2 older brothers were more involved. My dad’s oldest brother once said to me, “If you love acting, keep doing it.” I once saw him in a play during a visit to India. The image of him up on stage is still crystal clear in my mind. There was a comfort in realizing that this pull to acting was in my blood. 

From college through my career as a Merchandise Planner (calm down), I felt like a fraud. I looked around and saw my peers and friends making strides with career or advanced degrees; following their purpose. And there I was, sitting in my various cubicles, constantly letting fear win. I did have a few moments along the way where I said, “Okay, I’m just going to do it, I’m going to be an actor,” and almost immediately I could imagine the looks of judgement and hear condescending remarks from people I call my “life-doubters” (more on that in another entry). 

After years of being consumed by cowardice along with my career mediocrity, I plunged into a dark place of shame. I’d rewind my life and take inventory (ironic) of all my failures, from my squandered college years to messing up a dashboard metrics report (whew, is it hot in here?) at work the previous week. I was almost angry that my talents didn’t reside in the practical areas in which I was trying so hard to assimilate. I felt lazy and useless. I felt worthless.

Here’s a piece of advice: If you get compliments about the same things your whole life, BELIEVE THEM. For me, it was, “You are so funny!” or “You’re a great actor,” or “Wow, I love your writing,” or “Damn girl, where’d you learn to salsa dance like that?” Okay, the last one only happened once at a Salsa Club and I’m pretty sure the guy was trying to lure me back to his place, but if I’m being honest, I REALLY want to be a fantastic salsa dancer.

After I had my daughter, I woke up. While the fear didn’t completely go away, I was just DONE with self-pity. My fears had nothing to do with my parents, or from naysayers who told me I’d never succeed. It was all me. I was the biggest naysayer of all. Why the hell was I denying my creative side? Why was I forcing myself into a career that, not only was I not passionate about, but I was pretty shitty at. Trust me, you don’t want me behind a desk entering data to make sure your Dad's Carhartt jeans are in stock. Chances are, I’d mess up and he’d be pants-less. My value in this world is on a stage, screen or writing something to brighten your day. 

Oh wow, I really wrote that with some gumption and confidence, huh? Well… not exactly. Truth is, I still struggle with those doubting voices quite a bit. Saying, “I’m an actor, writer, comedian,” doesn’t roll off the tongue without the urge to qualify it with, “I mean… I’m aspiring… not like I’m in Hollywood or anything… but, I enjoy it.” It’s clunky, but I’m getting there. For me, one of the glorious things about getting older is just not giving a shit about what others think. Am I really going to avoid my dream because Bitter Betty or Doubtful Dottie thinks it’s ridiculous? How stupid. I’d rather hang out with Inspiring Ida or Fearless Fiona. These are all totally real people, by the way. 

Character Description: Indian woman, age 40, who dreams big and doesn’t give a f*ck. Enough said.

I know I was put on this planet to entertain you, and I am no longer ashamed of that. Oh and as it turns out, I’m not lazy, because when I’m working on a sketch show, rehearsing improv, writing this blog, seeking out freelance writing clients or prepping for auditions, I’m like the Energizer Bunny (or something more topical, forgive me). My kids are witnesses to my life, and they will see their mom working toward her dreams every single day… and that’s worth a lot. 

Hi, I’m Sheevani, and I’m an actor, writer and comedian.

On stage at Go Comedy Improv Theater

Janak Desai

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March 12, 2010
I sat and stared at him as he lay in what used to be my brother's bedroom. It was the only room in the house that could fit the hospice-provided bed in which he would eventually die. We always knew his wish was to die at home so when the decision was made to stop treatment, bringing him back to the house he'd lived in since 1979 was the first priority. I had just returned from a friend's wedding in Mexico. Before I left, Daddy was deteriorating and after 3 days when I returned, my brother informed me that our father had stopped eating entirely and had mostly stopped speaking. I was 11 weeks pregnant and incredibly nauseous from the flight. "This can't be it," I thought.

February 2010
"Hi Mummy!!" I said into the phone as I drove away from the OB/GYN office. The news of my first child's due date was on the tip of my tongue. "Daddy's cancer is in his bones! It's everywhere... lungs, bones, everywhere." She was out of breath and her voice panicked. I froze and tried not to drive off the road. She hung up and I pulled over. "Once it's in the bones, that's it," Daddy would say throughout his 6 year fight with prostate cancer. Every body-scan to check on the progress of his treatment, we'd brace for the results. Up until that day, there had always been a huge sigh of relief.

The cancer remained at bay for years. Being a diligent patient with his screenings, it had been caught early and treated with medication after his prostate was removed. For reasons that only the cancer knows, it started to spread rapidly a few years later, and his oncologist said that chemotherapy was the only option. "Well, I'm already bald, so that's fine," Daddy joked upon hearing about his new course of treatment.

March 12, 2010
"Are you in any pain?" the hospice nurse asked as she situated Daddy's morphine drip. He said he wasn't and I smiled. He had suffered for months, and now he was comfortable. Just outside the bedroom, our living room was packed with friends from the Indian community. The kitchen was full of food and fresh chai was brewed.

I leaned forward in the chair next to his bed and stared at him. His eyes were closed and his breath steady. Years of health issues had somewhat prepared me for this, but the thought of never hearing my father's voice again violently squeezed my insides with sorrow. The tears began to surface to the point where I couldn't silence the oncoming sobs. My mother was adamant that we don't cry in Daddy's presence. "The soul won't go in peace," she told us. I stood up to cry in another room when my cousin said, "Sheevu, hold on, turn around."

Daddy's eyes were slightly open and his hand was reaching for me. I sat back down next to him and put my hand next to his. He closed his eyes and started to gently pat the top of my hand over and over again. The same hand that held my hand to cross the street as a child was now comforting me through this final stage of his life. He was saying, "I'm okay, I'm fine," with each pat and I understood completely. It is still one of the most beautiful moments of my life.

March 16, 2010
Over the next 4 days, countless friends and family came to say their goodbyes. At night, we'd all sit in the room with him, tell stories and LAUGH. We'd laugh so hard sometimes I thought we'd wake him out of his final coma. We were telling the same stories we'd told for years, and of course, making fun of the MANY things we'd tease Daddy about as a family. There wasn't anything Daddy loved more than laughing with friends and family. We were also able to say goodbye and let him know how much we loved him. Those final days were the perfect send-off for Janak Desai.

One by one, friends and relatives left our house. My mother convinced my brother, Sheel, to finally leave Daddy's side and sit with us in the living room. With all the activity in the past few days, Mummy thought it best to be together in another room. It couldn't have been more than 20 minutes when Sheel decided to go back to check on Daddy. "Guys, come in here," he called to us. My mother, sister-in-law and I walked in and Daddy was gone. He had taken his final breath when he was completely alone. I've heard countless similar stories where loved-ones wait until they are alone to let go. Just as he had gently patted my hand to comfort me, he held on for days so his friends and family could say their goodbyes. I know he did that for them, and once that was over, his soul was at peace and he left us.

Today
My kids know so much about their Janak Nana. They say, "Tell us more stories about your dad!" At bedtime, there is often a bright star visible from my son's bedroom window. "That's Janak Nana's star, right Mama?" my son asks. I say yes and tell him my Daddy is watching over us. As my children grow up, a daily recurring thought is, "I wish my dad could see this..." He'd be so proud that my son loves mango pulp and fart jokes. My daughter would melt his heart with her snuggles and infectious laughter.

It's been over 8 years, but my hand still feels that gentle pat from time to time. Sometimes it's through a hug from my children or toilet joke I know he would have loved. In any form, this forever Daddy's Girl appreciates the reminders.

White Weekdays, Brown Weekends

"Hey hey hey! Stop that! That's offensive. Indians do not eat monkey brains. And if they do, sign me up, because I am sure they are very tasty... and nutritional." --Michael Scott

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White Weekdays, Brown Weekends Blogcast -  Click Here to Listen

Weekend mornings from my childhood all had the same soundtrack. I would wake up to the sounds of static-ridden Indian music blaring from the silver radio outside my bedroom. In the 80s, there was one Indian radio show in Detroit broadcast on the AM dial. Even though the static would rarely dissipate, and the sound quality rivaled that of the moon landing transmission, my parents would blast that show at full volume just to taste some of the nostalgia from the life they left in India. I would often be annoyed, but if I was honest with myself, there was a comfort to seeing my parents enjoy the old songs from their past. If a particularly memorable song was played, my dad would exclaim, "Vah! Vah!" (sort of the Indian equivalent to "THIS IS MY JAM!") his eyes would close, and he'd sway his head to the melody. Oh, and my dad would tune every radio in the house to the crackling Indian show so there was no escape. Every corner of our small ranch house in Royal Oak was filled with the voices of Kishore Kumar, Lata Mangeshkar, Mohammad Rafi and Asha Bhosle. In addition to the musical pleasure for my parents, the sound of Bollywood oldies and Indian Casey Kasem was the perfect transition into my "brown" or Indian weekends.

From Monday to Friday, I had my white life. School days spent with mostly white kids where I would assimilate into a persona of that world. Don't get me wrong, this wasn't some huge Monday morning transformation where I rehearsed saying things like, "Geez Louise!" while locking up my saris. I was pretty much a typical American kid who was never embarrassed about being Indian. However, I learned early on that kids did see me as different and like most kids, I just wanted to belong. 

Kindergarten was my first glimpse of what I looked like to the other kids at Oakridge Elementary School. At that time Royal Oak was predominantly white and I was one of about 6 Indian kids in the entire school district (and that includes my older brother). That first day, a little girl looked at me in line for recess and asked, “Do you talk English?” I was a shy kid, so even though inside I was confused, I just looked down at my feet and nodded. “Oh,” she said, “Cuz you don’t look like you know how to talk English.” Mrs. Pedrick called for the girl to keep walking since her inquiry into my language skills was holding up the line. The memory of this girl and her innocent question is vivid; she was missing a tooth, had a lot of freckles and her breath smelled like a rubber band. The memory of my reaction is also clear; I shrugged my shoulders and ran as fast as I could to the swings. 

Halloween of my Kindergarten year, my super creative idea for a costume was to dress up as an Indian Girl… yes, an Indian Girl. I remember my mother suggesting Wonder Woman or Strawberry Shortcake, but no, I wanted to wear a Panjabi with braids and bindi on my forehead. Looking back, I’m struck by the irony of my immigrant Indian mother trying to convince me to wear something “American” while I was perfectly content celebrating my heritage on a day where children can be anything. Ah, the bliss of innocence before the agony of self-consciousness.

The day of the Halloween parade, the kids were all confused by my “costume,” and to her credit, Mrs. Pedrick explained how I was dressed in “traditional clothes from her country.” “My country?” I thought, “Isn’t this my country?” I twirled in my Panjabi and gently tapped my forehead to make sure my bindi was still in place. “Sheevani, why don’t you tell us a little about your outfit?” At 5 years old, all I knew was I wearing a Panjabi that my Masi (aunt) brought from India during her last visit. “Well, it’s verrrrry interesting!” Mrs. Pedrick said with her eyes wide. I sat down, and all the superheroes, princesses, cowboys and witches stared at me like I was an alien. One boy’s plastic vampire teeth were hanging out of his mouth as he stared at the sparkly dot on my forehead. If I felt anything other than pride, I certainly do not remember it.

The next year, I wasn’t quite so resilient. In first grade, the kids in my class didn’t see me as an Indian girl; they saw me as a black girl. During a lesson about slavery, a little girl turned around and said, “Your grandpa was a slave.” Her lisp launched a spittle that flew onto my cheek when she said, “slave.” I wasn’t having it. “No, he wasn’t!” I said, “I’m Indian!” The girl shook her head completely dismissing my clarification and turned back around. A boy next to me leaned over and said, "Your skin is brown, that means your black." As if clarifying that detail would change my mind. The frustration went home with me that day and I told my mother why I wasn’t in the best mood after school. 

When I think about what my mother did after I tearfully told her what had happened over my after-school bowl of Wheaties, I'm still amazed. She came in after school the next day and asked Mrs. Kampsen to teach the class about India so the kids would understand more about their brown classmate. Mummy spoke slowly and very deliberately, as if she had rehearsed her words. At that point, Bharati Desai had been in the United States for about 10 years. She learned most of her English after she came to this country from night classes at my future high school along with tv shows like Good Times and All in the Family. This immigrant mother saw the pain in her daughter’s eyes and despite her own pressures to assimilate, she made a request unlike any other at Oakridge Elementary in 1984. 

Mrs. Kampsen obliged and the following week we learned about India. I sat a little taller on my carpet square as she talked about how India is a country in Asia with a rich culture and spicy foods. The world map was pulled down in front of the blackboard and she pointed out New Delhi and Agra, home of the famous Taj Mahal. Her lesson was simple and sparse, but I was sure this would clear up the confusion. A little boy raised his hand and asked, “Wait, aren’t Indians the people with feathers in their hair?” My teacher clarified the difference between Indians in India ("like Sheevani's family") and the Indians encountered by the pilgrims. The spittle girl turned around and said, “Your grandpa lived in a tee-pee.” Oh, for fuck’s sake. 

Around that time, an internal duality of self quietly started and continued to spread through high school. Even when I felt I was making progress, I'd get slammed with not being invited to a party or seeing all my friends at the mall hanging out without me. I still remember in 5th grade a girl telling me she didn't invite me to her summer birthday party because she "wasn't sure if I was allowed to go to parties." When I asked why she said, "I don't know... my mom said your parents would probably say no." Now, did all of these things happen because I wasn't white? Maybe not, but for a sensitive adolescent/teen girl, it was my go-to explanation. No matter which way I leaned, the nagging imposter syndrome crowded any comfort I tried to achieve and eventually, I stopped leaning too far either way. 

My "brown weekends" were filled with Indian dance rehearsals, dinner parties, trips to the Indian grocery store to stock up on chutneys and canned mango pulp.  That same store carried all the bootlegged Bollywood movies my parents often rented on VHS. No amount of "fix the tracking!" could save some of those prints. Since my mother worked, she would cook a number of dishes on Sunday to last us for the week. If you didn't like leftovers in our house, you were out of luck! My Sunday afternoons were often spent helping my mother make a variety of Indian breads; puris, rotis or parathas. I could never roll them out into perfect circles like she did, but they tasted just the same. Our house always smelled like a warm hug of incense and spice. 

Royal Oak’s neighboring cities were where a lot of my Indian friends lived. Troy, in particular, was a hotbed of Indian families who, after saving their money following their arrival in the U.S., upgraded to bigger houses in the upper-middle class suburb. My parents never upgraded. We stayed in Royal Oak. As a child, I wanted so badly to live in Troy. It would have been like going from Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink to Molly Ringwald in The Breakfast Club. For my Bharat Natyam (classical Indian dance) lessons each week, I would go to some Indian family’s basement in Troy where I was taught the intricate steps that symbolized the great stories of Hindu mythology. Most of my dance classmates went to school together so they would be chatting about the latest gossip, the upcoming pep rally, who liked whom, which teacher they wanted the next year, etc. I was just their envious dance friend who lived in that poorer, blue-collar city next door.

Even though I had no shortage of school friends, those weekends showed me the impact of having other Indian kids as schoolmates. I never got the sense that my school life was lacking until I'd see those Indian friends bonding over being "the Indian kids" at their schools. Sometimes I would daydream about living in Troy and going to school where seeing an Indian kid was as common as crunchy curled bangs. I just assumed that when they met their white friend's parents, they never heard things like, "Does your mom/dad speak English? Just wanna make sure in case I gotta call them," or "Sorry dear, I just can't say your name," or "What's that dot all about?" Maybe they still got those questions, but in my fantasy of living in Indian-clad Troy, those experiences didn't exist. Did my Indian friends treat me any differently? Other than not including me in their school discussions, not at all. We all got along, but my own projection of feeling different certainly kept me from making deeper connections. 

I want to be clear that I wasn't suffering (except in junior high, but I mean, who wasn't?), this was the life I knew and like most other kids, I was just trying to survive my specific struggles of childhood. Honestly, I adapted to the dual-life pretty quickly to the point where on Friday afternoons I couldn't wait to see my Indian friends and on Sunday nights I was excited to dive into the week with my white friends. I don't have some sympathy agenda here, this is just an exploration of where this imposter syndrome comes from. As I get older and try to inch closer to being at peace with my flaws, these examinations into my past help me to understand some of my choices. Was the way I grew up the reason I don't have a large group of friends? Does my past contribute to why I preferred to be a loner on most weekends in high school? Maybe feeling like an outsider in both worlds is why I tend to blame myself if a friendship fades away. Did I have a surge of selfishness in my 20s because I was tired of feeling like a fraud? That's a glimpse into my brain, folks. And yes, I'm exhausted. 

Today, my children attend a school with a large Indian population. As a lunch volunteer, I've helped open Tupperware filled with biryani and cleaned up chutney from a kid eating dosas. That stuff warms my heart. Kudos to their immigrant parents for packing lunches without fear of judgement. The world has changed a lot since my skinny brown ass was clinging to whatever commonality it could find depending on the day of the week. The kids today don't even think twice about having friends named Praneeth, Nishant, Divya or Mukti. Since my kids are half Indian, half Polish, they may have their own struggles about where they belong, and I can only hope my childhood can provide some guidance and affirmation that feeling different can be hard, but it's something to embrace. Also, sorry for making you picture my skinny brown child-ass.   

  

The Reluctant Stay at Home Mom

The Reluctant Stay at Home Mom Blogcast

I am a stay-at-home mom. Whew, the first step is to admit it. I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for over 3 years after working in the corporate world for about 12 years, give or take. Even though I'm 3 years into this gig, I've never really come to terms with the fact that I'm living a life I didn't expect. The SAHM title conjures up a lot of judgement from everyone... including myself. 

I want to be up front about the fact that I’m not a psychologist, sociologist or researcher who has studied SAHMs in a lab. I’m not an expert you’d find on the news speaking on the effects of staying at home vs working at a traditional job. The purpose of this post isn't to advocate for or against staying home. I just… know what I know. And what I know is I’ve never been quite comfortable saying I’m a stay-at-home mom. It’s always said with a tilt of the head or shrug of the shoulders. I non-verbally convey to whomever I’m speaking that I'm not exactly proud that I stay at home with the kids. I’ve judged myself before they can judge me… I suppose it’s a defense mechanism of sorts. Why is that? Why do I feel that way?

Based on my conversations with other SAHMs, I’m not alone. It’s a subject we could talk about for hours. There are a lot of shared feelings about being judged and about our self-worth. We also have a ton of stories about things people have said to us when they find out we don’t have a salary or an office we go to every day from 9-5:

"Oh, good for you! I wish I could do that!"

"Wow, YOU have the hardest job of all!!"

"Ugh, I could never do that, I'd go crazy being with my kids all day!"

"I bet your husband LOVES that!"

"Oh." (freezes and stares at your face not knowing what else to say)

These comments do not offend me or upset me. I've never had an issue with how other people respond, only myself. My own response is what I've needed to work through for the past 3 years.

I do know a lot women who love staying home; it’s what they’ve wanted since they were little. I envy these women because they are living the life they always dreamed of. But for me, this is a life I never guessed would happen. I thought I would work, my husband would work and we’d share the responsibility of kids 50/50. BOY WAS I WRONG… and a bit delusional. 

Along with wrangling my 2 kids, I am also an aspiring actor, writer and comedian. As a child of the 80s, tween and teen of the 90s and starting my adult life in the early 2000s, I was  conditioned to think the only path was to go to college and get a job. After that, find love, get married, have kids and there you go! Life complete! This is something I like to call the “Should Burden.” We do the things we “should” do no matter if it’s the right path for ourselves. It’s what’s expected, so we don’t even question it. 

I did all of that. And I have a great life. I’m not complaining.  I truly believe my life is exactly where it should be at this moment. This isn’t about regrets at all. I made all of these choices because I wanted to, including being a stay-at-home mom. It wasn't an easy decision, but one I came to back in the Spring of 2015. See, my husband is a very ambitious person. It was one of the primary things that I fell in love with and still love to this day. He motivates the part of me that tends to say “I can’t do it” or “that’s too hard.” So, I knew having someone with his work ethic and lofty goals in my life would be beneficial to help me out of the ruts in which I would often find myself. And I was right; he has provided an example I have needed time and time again. 

Ever since I met my husband, his career has been on an upward trajectory because that’s what he works extremely hard for. I've been lucky enough to witness his journey from lowly music buyer to a high-level executive. He is and has always been the bread-winner in our family, so my career as a merchandise planner/inventory manager (so sexy, right?), was secondary. And again, that “Should Burden” was screaming in my ears saying, “Yeah, this is what you should be doing.” Now, was merchandise planning/inventory management my passion? Not. In. The. Least. In fact, I’m not sure I could have been less passionate about it. But, I went in everyday, did my job and came home. I was semi-above average at it AT BEST. When it came to careers in the corporate world, my ambition paled in comparison to my husband. 

Fast forward a few years after we got married to when we had our first child. I quickly learned what it’s like having a new child, a full-time job, an executive husband who was also getting his Executive MBA. What I learned was I was not prepared nor equipped for that sort of stress. Fast forward a few more years after that and I was drowning with 2 kids, a full-time job and a husband who travels at that dreaded consultant frequency. I was exhausted, I was angry, and I was resentful towards my husband. All of these emotions made me a shitty mom and shitty wife. 

During that stressful time, I would HATE myself for not handling it with more grace. It took a lot of time for me to accept that it's completely okay that I'm not the same as friend A or relative B or lady-in-grocery-store-who-I've-decided-is-better-than-me-based-on-her-manicure C. My strengths, and I have many, lie in other areas. That pesky Should Burden would make me feel like shit and I wasted so much time focusing on how I was less than all these other working mothers. That added psychological self-flogging just added to my unhappiness. 

So, I decided to stay at home. I was scared. VERY scared. I wasn’t sure if it would be better having the kids with me all the time. It was a risk for sure, but I knew I needed to change something before I had an absolute meltdown. Okay, I can almost hear the barrage of voices saying, “Oh poor you, you were tired and overworked and overwhelmed, at least you HAD the choice to stay home.” To that I say, yes, you are absolutely right. Believe me, it is never lost on me how lucky I am. I grew up with a mother who fully expected to stay home, but due to circumstances with my father's career, that was not an option. I saw the toll it took on her. Believe me when I say my gratitude meter is at full capacity. I can only tell my story, and my story includes a very successful husband. I'll get into how I feel I don't deserve this lifestyle in another post because that subject is a DOOZY for me!

I should also note that my salary was barely justifying the daycare costs we were paying at that time. I loved the paycheck, but when I did the math, the emotional cost of working at my job and doing 95% of kid duty certainly put me in the red. Those daycare savings were a big factor in our decision. By staying home, our income was pretty much a wash. That being said, I HATED (and still hate) not having an income. It was the first time I didn't have a steady paycheck since college. My father's voice saying, "You should never be financially dependent on your husband," (something he said to me numerous times growing up) was repeating in my head. It has only gotten louder and louder as time as goes by.

This year is the first time my kids are both in school full-time. Upon learning this, the #1 question I would get asked was, "Are you going back to work?" The tone with which this  was asked depended on the person. Other SAHMs would say it with a lowered voice and an expression that suggested my answer would inform what they should do. Working mothers would almost make it a statement rather than a question. They were essentially saying, "If there aren't kids AT HOME then what's the point of staying home?" 

First of all, being alone in the house is WEIRD, man. I remember bouncing my colicky son while running after my energetic 2 and a half year old thinking this day would never come. Back then I had a conversation with a neighbor who was at the point where I am now and she said, "I have 7 hours all to myself, I'm not even sure what to do!" I stood there and strained a smile while my son screamed for the millionth hour and my daughter tumbled off her scooter onto the sidewalk. I wanted to trade places with this freed mother so badly because I knew EXACTLY what I wanted to do; sit on the couch and watch movies all the live long day. 

Well, here I am at that same transitional time in my life. While I haven't spent an ENTIRE day on the couch watching movies, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I've taken advantage of the empty house with a few bubble baths (total Calgone Take Me Away moments), watching Ellen and an occasional nap here and there. Hey, I've earned it! But more than anything, I have a fire in my belly to get going on my purpose. The reasons I decided to stay home 3 years ago haven't really changed, in fact they are a bit more intense. My husband is busier than ever and travels a lot and my kids are getting busy with homework and their own activities. If I went back to work in a traditional office setting, I feel like I'd be going backwards into that pool of anxiety and resentment.

But to answer those inquiring minds, YES I am going back to work. In fact, I'm diving into multiple careers and I couldn't be more excited. I was never meant to work behind a desk balls deep in Excel spreadsheets. I'm a creative person who suppressed my creativity for way too long because it didn't fit into what I thought I should do. Ah, that Should Burden is a real bitch and I was a dumbass who subscribed to it for too long. I feared outside judgement so much that I never really listened to what was in my bones. 

I have an acting agent, I'm launching a freelance writing career and I'm writing a one-woman show that I hope to tour with someday. It's all hustle, but on my own terms. I cannot wait to have an income again and show my kids that working hard for what may seem like impossible dreams is never a waste of time. If I can teach my kids anything, it's that nurturing your talent with hard work and determination is always a worthy path. Staying home with my kids since 2015 was glorious and you know what, I was damn good at it. I have no regrets, I just wish that stay-at-home-moms had a retirement plan.