This morning I was inspired.
Inspired to petition BCBSMA and all MA insurance companies to cover home births as part of their policies, inspired to put together my husband’s birthday gift, excited about the running I’ve been doing and will do. I was making plans for a little shop online to sell wrist warmers and quilts and french press cozies (things to hold in the much-needed warmth). The coffee shop job is smoothing out and the farm starts soon and there’s been a little blip of editing after a few weeks without. I was finally feeling like things would all work out, like I could let go of the worry for a second and just enjoy being excited.
But then there was a talk with one of my bosses feeling hurt that I have two other jobs I’m trying to balance along with the one I do for her because hers is only a seasonal job and I need money all year long since I cannot hibernate and ignore the world and food and heat and necessities for half of the year. And a walk along the edge of misunderstanding with my in-laws blooming into a talk with my husband about whether we are taking advantage of them, whether he (my husband) will be able to continue his dream position volunteering at a local brewery even though I work two shifts a weekend. And suddenly my contributions and my efforts seem so small.
If only I could sell one of the novels I have kicking around for a $5000-10000 dollars. If only I could get a job tutoring and make in two hours what I make in ten serving coffee. If only, if only. If only I tried harder, pinched the pennies tighter, tighter. If only I hadn’t gotten that one take-out pizza last month. If only I hadn’t gotten that celebratory bottle of wine the month before. If only I could get an editing job I could do from home. If only we had inexpensive national childcare. If only money grew on trees. If only money were no object.
Mothering is enough, they say. You work hard enough raising a child; it is enough. But what about when it isn’t?